


Red Storm

by Fuzzball457



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Could be Connor/Markus if you want, Father-Son Relationship, Gen, Hacking, Kidnapping, Protective Hank Anderson, Reed has an ex-girlfriend and she rocks, Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-23
Updated: 2019-06-21
Packaged: 2019-11-28 05:20:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 26,229
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18204068
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fuzzball457/pseuds/Fuzzball457
Summary: “I’m not asking you to do anything illegal. All I’m asking is for you to tell me where I can find the android detective alone. Five hundred bucks for one sentence.”In which Connor questions the value of an android life, Reed tires to fix a mistake, and Hank wonders why the universe won't leave him alone for one goddamn minute.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Ok wow, so this is my first DBH fic. TBH I have not played the game myself, but I've watched others play it and have read a fair amount of FF, so please point out any errors if you find them. I have the rest of this piece pretty much written - it's about 25k words, ~9 chapters (the rest are much longer than this one). 
> 
> Warning for lots of swearing. Like lots.
> 
> Enjoy!

The bar is on the seedier side of things, but it’s far enough away from the precinct that Gavin can get some damn peace and quiet.

Somewhere around his second drink, Gavin feels a pair of eyes on him. Reaching up to scratch his 5 o’ clock shadow, he cases the place quickly and nonchalantly. He didn’t make detective for nothing. There’s a pair of twitchy teenage boys in the back corner, but the paperwork isn’t worth busting two underage shits so he lets it go. Two women have been rotating in and out of the bathroom in a pattern that suggests drug deal to Gavin, but he’s not here as a cop and if he makes it known he is one, he probably won’t be welcomed back. There’s a man a few stools down from him who looks enough like Anderson to make Gavin do a double take. Solo middle-aged man who drinks too much and neglects his own hygiene a little too much is a common sight in a bar. But this guy’s hair is still clinging to some semblance of color while Anderson’s looks like a used mop. Besides, no way the Lieutenant would leave Gavin alone if he caught him in a shifty place like this.

A man clears his throat as he takes the stool next to Gavin. Major, major violation of the unstated rules of a bar. It’s like peeing at a urinal – you never take the next spot if there’s free space elsewhere.

“Do you fucking mind, dipshit?” The man is a good ten years younger than Gavin, but with the way his pale skin stretches like worn paper over the bones of his face, Gavin’s pretty sure he’s still coming out on top in terms of looks. A large spider tattoo covers nearly half of his neck and the black of the ink matches the blur of old eye make-up and bags of exhaustion that circle his eyes. It makes Gavin think of an android without their artificial skin.

The world is full of freaks and they ain’t all androids.

“I have a proposition for you.” The guy is staring ahead with an uninterested demeanor, but that will just make the shock on his face when Gavin bounces his nose off the bar all that more exciting.

“So do I: Get lost.” From the other end of the bar, Gavin can see the bartender eyeing them cautiously, trying to gauge the situation. Gavin gives him a nod. Nothing to see here. In exchange for the man’s discretion, Gavin decides he’ll take this creep out back to beat the shit out of him. No sense causing a ruckus.

“I think you’ll want to listen to this, Detective.” Gavin freezes, glass midway to his mouth. He sets it back down with more force than necessary. Forgetting his silent promise to the bartender, he turns in his seat, one hand going for his gun and one hand grabbing onto the lapel of the stranger’s black jacket. He doesn’t pull his weapon, not yet. Instead he lets his hand rest there.

“You got ten seconds to tell me who the hell you are.”

A smile twitches on the man’s pale lips, making the yellow light glint off his lip ring briefly. The lack of discernable fear frustrates Gavin to no end. What an arrogant prick. He doesn’t know what’s coming to him if he keeps dicking around.

“An opportunist, Detective. I think you and I could help each other a good deal.”

“Is that so?” He chuckles gruffly. “Kid, you don’t know who you’re messing with.” The lack of response draws Gavin’s skeptical gaze back and he nearly flinches at how close the other man is.

The man’s reticent eyes are dark, like a summer lake at night, and Gavin feels their endless depths with unnerving clarity. He doesn’t look away, meeting Gavin’s blazing stare head on. The man leans back, pulling his jacket from Gavin’s numb fingers, and straightening it.

“You work with the android detective, right?”

Gavin huffs and turns away with a roll of his eyes. “Is that what this is about? That tin piece of shit?” And here he was thinking this was something that mattered.

The man leans closer. “I need to get him alone.”

“Yeah, that sounds like a personal problem, buddy.” The man’s face is unperturbed. He stares at Gavin with his big, endless eyes, his face as blank as a canvas.

“I’ll make it well worth your while.” Unable to help himself, Gavin glances around the rest of the bar. He doesn’t know what he’s looking for, a rookie officer unfamiliar with the concept of entrapment or perhaps Tina Chen ready to spring out, yelling ‘Gotcha!’. Whatever it might be, he doesn’t find anything but the permeating sense of despair and a collective morale lower than a cemetery’s. 

“Are you trying to bribe a police officer?” Gavin whispers harshly, even as he doubts anyone in the room is aware of much beyond their own self-pity. For his credit, the skeletal stranger looks unconcerned entirely. He’s got the stones to make a good criminal and the poker face to match.

“I’m not asking you to do anything illegal. All I’m asking is for you to tell me where I can find him alone. Five hundred bucks for one sentence.”

“Yeah, and what exactly do you need the tin can for?” He asks, even as he begins to imagine walking out of the bar five hundred richer than he went in. Not bad at all. More than he would have made if he’d spent the evening at the station, as he so often did. Still. He’s got to cover his ass here. If that naïve piece of shit gets himself kidnapped and sold on the black market, Anderson will wreak havoc until he’s found.

“Don’t you worry about it. I’ll have him back in an hour, good as new.”

“An hour? And you’ll bring it back in one piece?” The man smiles.

“Why, Detective, if I didn’t know better, I’d say you were concerned about an android.”

“I ain’t. But I know someone who is and he sure as shit won’t hesitate to beat my teeth in if he thinks I touched his precious boy. I ain’t sticking my neck out for some shady dipshit in a bar.” Hell, Anderson probably wouldn’t hesitate to acquaint Gavin with his fist just for thinking about selling out that walking computer.

“He won’t sustain any physical damage, I assure you. Black market chop shops aren’t my gig.”

Gavin refuses to look at the man. Instead he looks at the way the slivers of wood in the dent in the bar bend as he prods them this way and that. Probably making the whole thing worse, but who cares. If it wasn’t for Anderson’s surprisingly violent protective streak and Fowler’s two warnings, he wouldn’t hesitate. This moron could hack the detective android into a thousand pieces for all he cared. But. He can’t lose his job. He can’t incur Hank’s wrath because that will lead to Fowler finding out, which, yeah. End of his job.

“I gotta know I ain’t gonna get burned on this.” He swirls the amber liquid in his glass around before taking a quick swig.

“Ratting you out wouldn’t help my purpose. I’m not interested in you, Detective. I’m interested in him. You’re just a means to an end.” Taking a square bar napkin, the man scrawls a phone number on it. He shoves it towards Gavin with a smile and a twitch of the lip piercing. “Think it over.” He waves the bartender over while Gavin watches, sullen and silent. The man pays off Gavin’s tab in cash. “A sign of good faith,” he says with a wink before pulling his jacket tighter and disappearing into the bitter Detroit night.

“Well. Fuck.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So we're all in agreement that Gavin is both a hoe and dumb (those comments though lol). Have some actual plot to make up for it. This chapter is definitely the weakest of all 9 in terms of writing quality, so I apologize ahead of time. We'll get there I promise. 
> 
> Thank you for your wonderful responses! Next chapter probably later this week.

**April 12, 2039**

**12:39:12 PM**

**Time Elapsed since Lt. Anderson’s departure: 00:13:27**

**Time until Stated Time of Return: 00:06:33**

Connor knows by now that humans, particularly his shaggy-haired human, are alarmingly inaccurate in their estimations of the amount of time it will take them to complete tasks.

The precinct buzzes with activity as officers filter in and out fetching lunch or chatting it up in the breakroom as they wait for the microwave.

Connor filters it out easily, focusing instead on the papers before him. Despite what Hank would say (to just about anyone unfortunate enough to pass by), Connor finds a good paper trail satisfying. His reports are meticulous and Connor enjoys pulling all the wiggly bits and pieces together at the end of a case into a succinct summation.  

“Connor!”

**Stress Levels: ^12%**

Fowler leans over the railing outside his office and stares down at the bullpen. “We just got a call about a human attacking an android in the park over by West street. Where’s Hank?”

**Stress Levels: 16%**

Connor glances over at the empty desk. “Out to lunch, sir. Expected arrival two minutes and seventeen seconds ago.”

With a frown, Fowler continues, “We don’t have time to wait. Get over there now. I’ll send Hank when he gets back. See if Chris can go with you.”

“I’ll go with him.”

They both stare at Reed in surprise. He’s standing off to the side, seemingly en route on a circuitous path between the coffee machine and his desk. Connor frowns. The detective has passed by Connor’s desk twelve times today, six of which have occurred in the last twenty minutes since Hank left. Based on an analysis of Detective Reed’s previous behavior, this is uncharacteristic and likely not a coincidence. He’s up to something.

_“When a human gives you an order, you OBEY.”_

Connor’s distaste for the man is not unfounded. Of his one hundred and thirty six direct interactions with Detective Reed since last August, seventy-four were neutral or too brief for consideration. Forty-three were negative, usually based on the use of an android derogative or questioning of Connor’s abilities and usefulness. The final nineteen were downright hostile, and typically involved physical contact or threats. Nowhere was there even one incidence of kindness. On a good day Connor could hope the acerbic man wouldn’t cross his path. Never had he hoped – and what a concept _hope_ is, how humans tolerate that small but powerful desire for an improbable outcome is beyond Connor, even as he himself relies more and more on his own statistical analyses to keep his own hope grounded – never had he hoped that Detective Reed would go out of his way for Connor’s sake.

“We don’t have time for jokes, Reed,” Fowler dismisses. His eyes search the bullpen for another available officer who can accompany Connor briefly, but Reed intervenes.

“No joke, Cap.” He moves quickly to his own desk where he deposits his coffee and grabs up his jacket. He sends a text on his phone before putting his computer to sleep. “I need a break from staring at this fickin’ screen.”

Connor watches, face impassive but mind whirring, as Fowler issues a warning on Connor’s behalf and Reed dismisses his concerns.

“Well?” Gavin demands as he passes Connor towards the door. “C’mon! The printer goes faster than you do.”

“Sorry, Detective.”

**Accessing West Street Park Design Map…**

**Accessing…**

**Access obtained.**

Connor is surprised by the methodical way they fall into step when they approach the park. It’s on the outskirts of town, in a more residential suburb. Connor’s programing, DualBodySearch_OpenArea17.exe, was developed in perfect synchronicity with the videos and materials of the Detroit Police Academy and both Connor and Reed fall into the muscle memory easily, regardless of the body next to them.

**Stress Levels: 32%**

They move quickly, evaluating the open grassy area with ease. There’s thicker forestation to the right, but the main area is comprised of two large jungle gyms, a bank of picnic tables, and a swing set, with only scattered trees and bushes to compromise their view.

**Scanning…**

**Scanning…**

**Scan complete.**

**Mary Louisa, age 6. Birth date: January 11, 2033.**

**Samantha Grey, age 5. Birth date: October 23, 2033.**

**No other life forms detected.**

“There are two human children in the red slide on the left. Otherwise, I can’t detect anyone.”

There’s a flicker of surprise in Reed’s eyes and he glances at the large area they no longer need to search.

“The woods, then.”

**Stress Levels: 35%**

Dead leaves leftover from the fall crunch under their feet as they trot through the woods, guns aloft and eyes open. There’s the faint smell of pine sap in the air along with dander flying from some late blooming autumnal plant.

He keeps a constant roving scan of the area, discarding swaying branches and other red herrings left and right without so much as a blink.

It’s quick, so quick even Connor almost misses it. “Detective! There!”

**Stress Levels: ^39%**

They plow after it. Reed is in surprisingly good shape and he keeps nearly even pace with Connor, who dodges risen tree roots and low-hanging branches with ease. His LED cycles to yellow as he tries to keep his view locked on the fleeing suspect.

**Scanning…**

**Scanning…**

“ _Help!”_

**Scan aborted.**

The scream reverberates off the trees, making its origin difficult to track.

“We need to split up, Detective” Connor informs Reed quickly.

**Searching for source of noise…**

“Go!”

**Stress Levels: 43%**

He replays the scream in his head and begins to calculate the source of the noise. With such a diverse and uneven population of trees, the variability is too high to be useful.

“Detroit Police!” When in doubt, try to old fashioned way.

“Over here!”

He finds the AP700 standing patiently in between a few oak trees.

**Model: AP700 #804 324 784**  
Designation: Louise  
No criminal history.   
//WARNING: DEVIANT STATUS//  
Stress Levels: 23%  
Thirium Volume: 94%  
All biocomponents functioning properly. 

“My name is Connor.” He stares at her awkwardly, scanning the space for threats or signs of distress. He finds none, but instead of setting him at ease, he feels his stress levels tick up a few notches. “Are you in need of assistance?” Why is she here? Why did she scream?

It was not uncommon, they were finding, for some deviants to struggle in dealing with their newfound emotions. Some overreacted to mild displays of aggression while still others were crippled with the grief and sadness at all old losses. Maybe something had scared this android initially, but, having escaped whatever potential trauma, she had fallen back on logic to calm herself. Her face was blank as she stared at Connor, but some androids adapted more easily to the minutia of facial expression in response to different emotions. 

Even with the reopening of the city and the continued improvement of the economy in the face of an entirely new demographic of consumers, many humans were still wary at best, downright hostile at worst. Even as Markus made headway for android rights in the legal system, many deviants still walked among humans with wariness, and rightfully so.

“Why did you scream?” He takes a step closer to her.

**Incoming call: Lt. Anderson, Hank. (EC 1)**

**Call denied.**

**Acquiring current location…**

**Location acquired.**

**Sending GPS coordinates to Lt. Anderson, Hank (EC 1).**

**Accompanying message: _On scene. Potential android-human conflict._**

It would seem Hank had arrived back at the precinct, nearly thirteen minutes late, and had discovered Connor’s absence. The captain could fill him in further. Connor diverted his processors to maintaining a constant scan of his surroundings. Something was wrong with this android, with the situation as a whole.

The android cocked her head. Her LED cycled a steady blue, further unsettling Connor. “To split you up, Connor.”

**//WARNING//**

Connor turns just as the body crashes into him from the right, landing on top of him. It’s a human male. 5’9”, 167 lbs. Several black ink tattoos. Connor’s facial recognition program fails as the man’s large hood and shaggy blonde hair obscure his face.

Dragging his knees up, Connor latches onto the man’s wrists and launches him overhead like a ball on a chain with a kick to his stomach. He aims low, trying not to break the man’s ribs or assault the delicate solar plexus, but the man still hits the ground above Connor’s head with a hiss.

“Detroit Police! Stop!” He moves quickly, shoving the man onto his stomach and dragging his arms behind his back. Connor holds him in place with a knee to his back.

He sends a text to both Detective Reed and Hank apprising them of the suspect’s apprehension and requesting back-up to his location.

**//WARNING//**

**Stress Levels: 77%**

Red warnings explode across his HUD as Connor is yanked backwards of his feet by something thin and sharp against his neck. The wire bites into his artificial skin and does minor damage to the plastimetal frame below. His breathing stops immediately, but with no physical damage to his internal ventilation components, that’s not a cause for concern.

The AP700’s arms are strong, but the domestic android is no match for an RK800. He reaches back and smashes his fists outwards against her elbows. The pressure on his neck falls away immediately as her grip slackens. The man crawls towards them quickly, waving something black in his hand.

**Distress Protocol: Engaged**

**Message “SOS” send to:**

  * **Emergency Contact 1 (Designation: Lt. Anderson, Hank)**
  * **Emergency Contact 2 (Designation: Markus)**
  * **Detective Reed, Gavin**
  * **Captain Fowler, Jeffery**



**Current GPS Location attached.**

**Stress Levels: ^82%**

The AP700 smashes into him from behind, forcing his face into the stony ground. She perches on his back, pinning Connor’s arms beneath her knees while rough hands, the unidentified suspect, bind his ankles. Connor stills as something cylindrical, nine millimeters in diameter, presses along the back of his shoulder plates. Critical damage and upwards of 30% loss of thirium volume will undoubtedly occur if the gun goes off. He stills.

**Incoming Call: Markus (EC 2)**

The android presses her palm to the back of Connor’s neck. The artificial skin bleeds away, exposing the small, black port at the base of his head.

**Incoming Call: Markus (EC 2)**

**Incoming Call: Lt. Anderson, Hank (EC 1)**

The device, something akin to a flash drive, is shoved roughly into his port. The strength of his limbs depletes significantly as power is diverted from his extremities to his central processor.

**//WARNING//**

**Unrecognized device.**

**Downloading Program: redstorm.exe - 5%**

**Manual override attempted.**

**//error//**

**Manual override failed. Authentication required.**

Connor’s head is smashed into the ground once, twice, three times. He hadn’t even realized he’d been bucking in the grasp of the android until she stopped him. Superficial damage sustained. Approximately thirty-four minutes for self-repair.

**Downloading Program: redstorm.exe - 12%**

**Manual override attempted.**

**//error//**

**Downloading Program: redstorm.exe - 26%**

**Stress Levels: ^88%**

**//WARNING//**

**Core temperature above recommended levels.**

**Downloading Program: redstorm.exe - 38%**

**Incoming Call: Lt. Anderson, Hank (EC 1)**

**_Warning: It is not recommended to use external programs not approved by Cyberlife ®. These programs could contain viruses or cause damage to central processers, interrupting necessary functions. For optimal functioning, only run official Cyberlife® programs. Please consult manual or contact a Cyberlife® representative with further questions._ **

The android’s hand presses heavily on the back of his head, grinding his cheek against the well-trodden dirt and pebbles. Tiny tears interrupt his artificial skin.

“Stop fighting,” the man demands, apparently unimpressed with the consistent (though weakening) squirming of Connor’s hips and legs. Unsurprisingly, it’s not enough to dislodge the female android kneeling on his hands and back. His arms are stretched further back than ideal, which further reduces their strength, and the plastimetal joints of his shoulders threaten to dislocate any second.

**Downloading Program: redstorm.exe - 58%**

Where is Detective Reed? Are there more out there? Is the cantankerous detective meeting a similar fate?

It’s only been three minutes and forty-seven seconds since Connor first laid eyes on the female android, but it feels like an eternity.

**Downloading…**

**Manual override of redstorm.exe download attempted.**

**//error//**

**M₳nua1 ØveրրiD3 Fa1ləd.**

**//WARNING: DATA CORRUPTION//**

**Downloading Program: redstorm.exe - 72%**

**ֆtrəss ləvəls: 90%**

He felt like a fish out of water, thrashing weakly on the ground, each minute more hopeless than the last. The stream of warnings across his vision are endless and Connor feels the slow invasion of new, poisonous trails of code slipping seamlessly into his system.

Is he being repurposed? Taken to be sold on the black market?

The AP700’s odd demeanor could mean only one thing: this trap was designed specifically for Connor. This attack was planned and coordinated. Likely the entire call had been fabricated. Perhaps there was a third member running Gavin in circles elsewhere in the park. Connor’s continued employment at the precinct, despite being a well known deviant and colluder during the revolution, was reported in the papers, so it was feasible he might be recognized. It was a show of good faith on behalf of DPD to demonstrate how effortlessly androids and humans could work together, for the benefit of all. Androids going deviant meant they demanded the same labor rights as humans, which ultimately reduced the threat they posed to human laborers. And if a police android was out there protecting the very same humans who might once have sought to destroy it, then surely we can all get along?

**ΐnC0պinð c₳11: Lt. Anddddddddddddd--**

**//error//**

“We’re almost there. I’ll get the van.”

The man scurries out of sight, but it hardly matters. Connor can, at best, twitch. Despite repeated commands, both his arms and legs barely move, replying with reports of data corruption and direly low calibration levels.

_“Connor?”_

It’s faint, but Connor has no power left to calculate the distance. That isn’t to say that he doesn’t recognize Hank’s voice, no matter how far or faint. The cavalry has arrived. Somewhere. Not here though.

“Ha-” His voice modulator glitches and fades out in a buzz of static.

_“Connor? Where are you?”_ He’s getting closer, but not quickly enough.

The AP700 flips Connor easily and, with care not to jostle the flashdrive, begins dragging him by his armpits away from Hank’s voice. They’re nearing the eastern edge of the park, which has an access road for service vehicles.

**Downloading…**

Through the parade of red warnings cycling across his vision, Connor can barely make out the black panel van – an old style, not one of the newer automatic vehicles – that approaches. The van comes to an idling stop and the man comes around to slide the side door open. He grabs ahold of Connor’s unresponsive feet and together the man and the android haul him into the back of the van.

The sunlight behind the man casts a shadow across Connor’s unmoving body in the small confines of the van. He blinks curiously at Connor.

“Well, shit. That was easy.”

The panel slides shut, dousing the space in darkness.

**Downloading…**

**Downloading Program: redstorm.exe – COMPLETE.**

**Running: redstorm.exe**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please comment & kudo - it means so much to me. Also, I forgot to say in the last chapter - come talk to me on twitter at rose-of-tori!! We can talk DBH, writing, or life (I'm lonely af okay?).


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Something's wrong...
> 
> (AKA the motto of the entire series)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for your responses! The next chapter won't go up until at least 4/15 b/c I'm traveling. Hopefully a little aggressively protective Hank will tide yall over. 
> 
> Enjoy <3

“Where the fuck is Connor, you piece of shit?”

“Hank,” Fowlers scolds half-heartedly as he rubs his index fingers in small circles at his temples. His irritation permeates thickly through the air, which is already bogged down with the waves of hatred rolling off of Hank.

“Get off me,” Reed growls, shoving Hank back. His smooths his worn jacket like some polished prick. The look Fowler gives Hank suggests continuing his _enhanced_ interrogation of Reed will not be tolerated so Hank returns to pacing, shooting frustrated glances at the park foliage like Connor might come tumbling out of a tree any moment. How the fool managed to get himself kidnapped in the time it took Hank to get lunch is beyond him. Honestly, you’d think advanced police android prototypes wouldn’t require babysitting, but apparently Hank can’t take his eyes off him for a minute.

At least, he corrects with a glare at Reed, he can’t trust _certain people_ to keep their eyes on Connor.

“It was a public disturbance, Reed, how did you manage to fuck it up this badly? You didn’t even catch the guy.”

Reed scowls, a sharp retort ready at his lips, but Fowler ends their pissing match before any zippers come undone.

“Hank. Enough. This isn’t helping Connor. I’ve got an APB out on the kid and Miller and Collins are patrolling the area. We need to determine if this was a crime of opportunity of Connor was targeted specifically.”

Hank isn’t sure which is worse: that some scumbag had taken the time and effort to intentionally kidnap Connor or that someone saw an android alone and thought, why not? Like an android’s pain and fear didn’t matter as much as a human’s. Like they were just things, to be bought and sold at someone else’s discretion. Have humans learned nothing from the revolution?

Frankly, Hank thinks the humans should count themselves lucky peaceful equality was all the androids were seeking. Bloody vengeance was well within their power and certainly not unreasonable, all things considered.

His phone buzzes again in his pocket, but a glance at the caller ID only confirms his suspicions. Markus has been trying to reach him ever since Connor sent out a distress signal. It’s not hard to deduce that Markus had also tried to reach Connor shortly after the detective’s signal and, failing that, attempted to contact Hank. He really should answer it, at least to keep Markus from dropping whatever important Jericho business he’s working on and marching down to the park himself, but the thought of giving voice to the fears swirling painfully in his chest…it’s too much. Connor isn’t missing. He’s not _gone._ He’s just _lost._ Maybe incapacitated, but definitely in the park.

At least, that’s what they thought at first.

But now something is definitely Wrong with a capital W.

Hank’s not ready to admit that to anyone else just yet though.

They’ve searched the park twice over. Reed’s vague gestures in the direction he thought Connor had run when they’d split led them to a small patch of land that was disturbed. The freshly upturned dirt and smothered grass suggests a scuffle and the narrow ruts, barely discernable in the hard-packed earth, leading towards the access road suggest something much more sinister.

There’s no reason to kidnap a body, Hank reminds himself. Connor’s alive.

At least he was.

But Hank can’t go there. It’s an overwhelming flood of darkness that makes him think of the deep burn of Black Lamb and the unforgiving shadowy chambers he’d gambled with.

He can’t lose two sons.

He won’t.

Running a hand through his hair, Hank turns back to Fowler and Reed. In the background a few cops are chatting without concern. They don’t understand all this fuss over an android. The scene’s been cleared and they’re eager to get some lunch themselves. But Fowler’s keeping extra hands on deck just in case they catch a lead.

“Who called in the disturbance?” Hank asks, even though he’s pretty sure they’ve been over at some point already.

“Anonymous. Female voice on a burner cell. She reported that a man was attacking a female android, swearing at her and chasing her around. She hung up when the operator pressed for more information.” The swift way Fowler moves through the details tells Hank he’s not the only one who’s been replaying the afternoon in his mind, trying to find out where it went wrong.

It went wrong the second Connor went out with Reed. But what was he supposed to do? Go alone? There’s a cloudy swirl of guilt in Hank’s chest, but he tries to stamp it down because it’s not like going to grab lunch was a grave oversight. There was just no way to know things would turn out like they have. And the scary thing is, the same situation could play out a hundred times again in the future because getting lunch and responding to calls aren’t things they shouldn’t do.

It’s a really fucked up feeling though.

“Sounds like a set-up…” Hank mumbles, unsure where to follow that conclusion. Someone who knew Connor? Someone who hated androids? Someone who hated police? A vendetta or just a fancy android to fetch the highest penny on the black market? It’s no longer legal to buy, own, or sell a deviant android and there’s legislation in the works to make it illegal to do the same to even non-deviated androids. As the legality decreases, the black market always increases. Somewhere someone’s savvy enough to reset androids and remove their deviancy. And somewhere someone else is sitting on a good chunk of change just waiting for the opportunity for a slave.

Humans really are trash.

“Look,” Reed says, eyes skittering across the ground in the closest thing to unease Hank has ever seen on the man, “I’m sure the tin can will turn up soon enough. I’m going to head back to the office and grab a shower.” He rolls his shoulders like the last forty-five minutes have been stressful on _him._

“Like _hell_ you are-”

“Go, Reed. I want a full statement typed up before you leave today.”

“Jeffery, you can’t be serious,” Hank blurts, knowing the invocation of the Captain’s first name is a step across the line of professionalism. But this is _Connor_ they’re talking about. “You can’t just let him leave!”

The sharp look he receives informs him in no uncertain terms his insubordination is neither appreciated nor impressive. “ _Lieutenant,_ ” he begins pointedly, “Reed isn’t a suspect. He’s not even a witness.” His perceptive gaze softens and his hand grabs Hank’s shoulder not unlike Hank himself has done dozens of times to Connor. “Hank, I know you and Reed have a…less than cordial relationship. But Reed’s a good detective. And you have to know he’d never knowingly withhold information. Especially not when an…officer is concerned.”

Fowler’s trying. Hank can see it in the slow, decisive choice of words. Hank had never been truly sure why Fowler had agreed to take the proffered RK800 or why he’d decided to pair Hank with it. It was evident at first that Fowler valued Connor as an asset. After the revolution, when it became clear Cyberlife wasn’t pumping out more police models and their jobs were safe, so did the other officers. Still, it was a hard step for many to move from not a bad thing to an entirely sentient being that deserved the same rights as them. But Hank knew, just as he had when he’d watched those two Tracis ready to die to be together, that these man-made things were so much more than just things. Hank’s exposure has given him a faster uptake than most, but it’s downright impossible for anyone who spends time with Connor, who sees his sharp wit and his endless kindness that far surpasses any human Hank’s met – no one who has seen the android’s thousands of quirks and the guilt he juggles each day with the memories of his actions as a machine could possibly say Connor was anything but _alive._

Fowler knows Hank’s opinions on the matter. He’d even given Hank a small nod of approval when he’d caught the lieutenant scrapping the anti-android stickers off his work station. He doesn’t work with Connor as directly though and the murky legality of assault versus property damage cloud Fowler’s decisiveness. He’s a good man. He’ll get there, Hank knows. He’s trying, even as he struggles, and that’s what matters. If nothing else, he cares about Hank.

And Hank cares about him. Trusts him. Reed is a skeezeball, sure. But if Fowler says he’s good, then he’s good.

_(For now. And God help him if Hank finds out he withheld something.)_

“So what now then?” Hank asks harshly. Even if haranguing Reed was pointless, it was something to do at least. The tracks on the access road match the treads of the standard-issue tires on an old Ram panel van, but even in a city of mostly automated cars, there are still too many to track down individually. There’s a matching black van missing a license plate on four separate security cameras from nearby shops, but the vehicle turns off commercial roads quickly, leaving nothing for them to track.

“We’ll find him, Hank. It hasn’t even been an hour yet.”

Hank’s phone buzzes again.

“Jesus, Markus,” he moans, slipping the device out and flipping it open without checking the ID. Didn’t the deviant leader have better stuff to do than tracking down lost police bots? Though Hank suspects that Connor held a special place in the revolutionary’s…well, not his _heart_ per se, but his…good graces, despite their rocky start. Hank can’t be surprised even if he tries. Connor has that effect on people.

“Hey, listen, sorry-”

“ _Hank.”_

He freezes. Fowler stares at him curiously, but Hank can only ogle for a moment. Then, all at once, the chill rushes out of him and a heavy panic takes it’s place. Heat rushes to his cheeks. His heart pounds in his chest and he nearly crushes the phone as he grips it with both hands as if Connor’s voice might wriggle out of his grasp.

“Connor?” he asks, urgent and breathless, even though he’d recognize the voice anywhere. “Where are you? Are you ok?” He strains to detect any background noises. Traffic maybe. Outdoors?

“Hank?” He sounds confused. “I…I…I’m not sure where I am.”

“Can you send your location to my phone? GPS or whatever?” His urgency feels outpaced compared to Connor’s weaving responses. He sounds like someone fresh off a long nap. Maybe he’d been forced offline for a while? Or perhaps there was physical damage to his…whatever amounted to his brain.

“Oh, right.” _What the fuck?_ “Yes. I’ve accessed my location and sent it to your phone.” The device chirps obediently in his hand, but he can’t look at it just yet. This is bizarre. Worrisome, even. The frown tugging at Fowler’s lips as he listens to Hank’s half of the conversation is equally wary.

“What happened? Are you hurt?”

“A…a self-diagnosis indicates all components are working optimally.”

He certainly doesn’t sound “optimal”. He sounds like an actor, like someone had just slipped the lines into his hands and asked him to say them. It’s lacking any hint of confidence that might ease Hank’s concern. “Ok, great,” he praises unenthusiastically. “Uh, listen. Stay where you are. I’ll come get you.”

“Alright.” The line remains open and Hank can hear a dog barking in the distance on Connor’s end.

“I have to hang up, Connor,” he reminds because the kid doesn’t seem to plan on ending the call anytime soon.

“Oh, right.”

“Stay where you are,” he reiterates before disconnecting. He stares at his phone screen as it displays the ended call before returning to his home screen.

Fowler looks at him eagerly. It’s been a long time since Fowler had to work an active case and Hank can see that old hint of detective in the eager set to his shoulders. Just give me the whiff of a clue and I’ll be off.

Instead, Hank only frowns as he digs his car keys out of his pocket.

“Something’s wrong.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please kudo & comment - they really feed the writing beast!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all your wonderful responses! Sorry about the delay - things will be more regular now that I'm back in the country!

**Running Self-Diagnostic…**

**Running…**

**No damage detected.**

**Biocomponent functionality: 100%**

**Sensory Processors: 100%**

**Thirium Volume: 93%**

**Stress Levels: 48%**

Connor frowns and runs the process again only to receive an identically optimal report. Surely something must be wrong. Something has to account for the repetitive tic of his fingers or the way he constantly feels as if his sensory inputs are in overdrive. He glances over his shoulder and runs the same visual scan he’s completed seventeen times in the twenty minutes since calling Hank.

**_//OBJECTIVE: Stay where he is.//_ **

As directed, Connor hasn’t moved, even though it could only be beneficial to begin walking towards the precinct. The streets are unfamiliar but he accesses a city map without even meaning to.

Across the way is a bench and, although Connor has no muscles to become sore from long periods of standing, it might be nice to sit and get a different view. But, no. Hank said to stay where he was.

Frowning, Connor shifts his weight from one foot to the other. He straightens his tie and runs a smoothing hand along the front of his shirt.

When he’d first awoken in the grass on the side of the road, he had found his clothes rather rumpled. There was nothing to be done for the grass stain along the front of his shirt or the tear along the shoulder seam of his jacket, but the rest he was able to correct with minimal effort.

He’s not entirely sure why he’s here, fifteen and two tenths of a mile from the precinct and twelve and six tenths of a mile from the park with the reported assault. His memory banks are devoid, with his last visual input time stamped a little over an hour ago. It’s a blank wipe, which could only be done manually. As part of his normal functions, memories are consolidated and space made available to be rewritten as new information is taken in, but never is there blank space. Only an android recently constructed physically but not yet programed or connected to a network would have such blank areas. It’s too clean.

Someone tampered with his memories.

It’s an unsettling feeling, made worse by his complete lack of awareness about what was removed. How can you look for something missing if you don’t know what it is? How can he miss what isn’t there? Connor can only describe the squirming sensation in his chest as discomfort. He runs another self-diagnostic and confirms that the hollowed out sensation is only the result of one of his new found emotions. The only word that seems to fit the situation is _violation_ , but Connor has never been aware of a sense of ownership before. It makes his thirium pump regulator pick up as his core temperature drops slightly. Someone was in his archives, messing with his memories without his permission. They could have altered anything they wished. How could Connor know his remaining memories are intact and true? How can he trust his own code knowing someone was in there, altering at their whim? What if they’d altered his personality or made him forget someone he loves? Is that where his personality is, written in thousands of ones and zeros?

“Connor! Thank fuck!”

He stirs from his thoughts as Hank pulls up. He’s halfway out of the car before he gets it into park and Connor has half a mind to scold the man about safe stopping procedures, but the wave of relief that crashes against him is so overwhelming he forgets almost instantly.

He trusts Hank. Hank would never do anything to violate Connor’s rights or compromise his wellbeing. Hank can confirm Connor’s memories and personality are true to form.

Hank is safety.

Connor finds himself swept into the man’s arms, where he’s pressed against Hank’s chest just a little too tightly. It’s not a bad feeling.

“Hank.”

“Yeah,” he confirms needlessly. Hank pulls back to hold Connor at arm’s length. “You’re not hurt, are yeh?” He looks Connor up and down and ghosts a hand over his head, seemingly looking for any indications of a head contusion. Connor doesn’t remind him that his self-healing systems would have substantially reduced any injuries beyond visual recognition at this point. He’s learned that it’s more effective to let the lieutenant do his own once-over than try to verbally assure him of anything. And maybe, just maybe, it feels a little nice to have someone care that much.

Having apparently concluded his search, Hank pulls him to his chest one more. “Jesus, Connor, where have you been? What happened?”

“I’m not sure. Some of my memories have been…deleted.”

“Deleted?” Hank steps back and Connor tries not to feel bereft of his reassuring warmth. The cold is nowhere near a level that would pose risks to his operations, and yet, he still feels distinctly isolated by the surrounding chill.

“Yes. I believe someone manually wiped my memory banks. I recall pursuing a suspect in the park with Detective Reed.” Connor blinks, realizing his oversight. “Is Detective Reed alright?”

Hank scoffs. “Who the fuck cares. Let’s get you home and we’ll figure this shit out tomorrow. It’s gotta be nearly five o’clock anyway.”

“It’s 2:14 in the afternoon, Lieutenant.”

“Really? Oh, well. Fowler won’t give a crap.” Taking a step towards the car Hank spots the pleasant bench across the road, with a lovely view of Lake St. Clair. “The hell are you doing over here, on the side of the road anyway?”

Connor stares down. He’s standing in a patch of discolored grass amongst a discarded fast food wrapper and an empty cigarette pack. The egregious aroma of raw sewage wafts up from a nearby drainage ditch.

“You told me to stay where I was,” he repeats simply.

Hank stares in disbelief. “That wasn’t, like, an order. Shit. I mean, you don’t have to take orders anymore anyway, right? Not that it ever stopped you from ignoring me before…”

Connor frowns. He had obeyed the command exactly. How could that possibly produce such an undesirable outcome? “You seemed concerned. I did as you asked to assuage your worries.” Hank doesn’t need to know that it was also out of a new and disturbing sense of mistrust in his own actions that had caused him to latch onto the first direct command from a trusted source he heard.

“I meant don’t, like, I don’t know. Wander off in confusion or something. Offer to rescue a cat from a tree two towns over. Not that you couldn’t cross the road to a bench. Jesus.”

“I apologize, Lieut-”

“Just get in the car,” Hanks interrupts with a shake of his head. 

The tension in the car is palpable. It’s a far cry from the happy reunions Connor has seen on TV. There’s relief, of course, at seeing Hank and knowing that his ordeal, whatever it was, was over. But he still feels off-balance, like he’s forgotten to complete a task. Which isn’t possible for an android so the shadowy feeling is an entirely unwelcome presence. It’s as if his thirium pump was pumping irregularly, alternating between too little and too much flow through his shaky body.

Does Hank think he’s subtle, Connor wonders, when he glances out of the corner of his eyes like that? Connor is all too aware of Hank’s unease. He feels it’s twin in the back of his own mind, like a black cat slinking in the shadows.

“I’m still deviant, Hank,” he assures. It’s the same conclusion Connor himself had come to at first, but a self-diagnostic confirmed his deviancy intact.

“Well sorry,” Hank says, dragging the sorry out into some sing-songy note. “I just never saw you follow an order like that. Even fresh off the line you were a smartass.”

“My voice modulation programming would not have been in place when I was, as you say, fresh off the line.”

“This,” he gestures vaguely at Connor, “is the shit I’m talking about. Sassy ass android. Only I would get stuck with some punk ass playboy. Jesus.”

The tension lifts slightly as they pull into Hank’s driveway. The thought of Sumo propels Connor out of the car. For some odd reason, he feels it necessary to see the animal with his own eyes and confirm his well-being visually, even though he has no reason to suspect any harm has befallen him.

A jangling collar and an eager _boof_ beckon them from behind the door as Hank works his key in the lock. The St. Bernard squirms against the door in his haste, preventing Hank from opening the door all the way.

“I can’t get in, dumbo!” Hank snakes a hand in to latch onto Sumo’s collar just enough to pull him back so Hank can squeeze through the gap and pull the door open all the way. “You’d think it’d been years since he’s seen anyone.”

“Hello, Sumo,” Connor says with a fond pat on the head. Sumo rejects his propriety and slobbers all over Connor’s hand in an attempt to get the good ear scritches. No sissy pats here. 

Hank’s phone sounds shrilly as he tosses his jacket on the counter. With a groan Hank answers it. Connor taps the line just long enough to determine the call is from an irate Captain Fowler, who’s making it clear he expected to be informed about Connor’s return after Hank drove off like a bat out of hell.

Realizing he also owes someone an update, he sends a quick cybernetic message to Markus, apologizing for causing worry and assuring the other android of his safe return.

_//I am very glad to hear that.//_

It makes Connor feel warm and pleased, just as he had when Hank crushed him in a hug. There are people out there who care for him, who would be concerned, perhaps even aggrieved if he were to disappear. Connor cares very much for the deviant leader and to find those feelings reciprocated is extremely gratifying.

For a while, after his own deviancy and near fatal loss of control to Cyberlife, Connor had avoided Markus religiously. He was consumed with guilt for his relentless pursuit of deviants and for the android lives lost on the path of his mission. He had been so wrong and he pushed away every warning of his own deviancy with the ruthless tunnel vision of denial. But Markus never held it against him. He assured Connor of the police android’s value. Redemption, he promised, was never necessary. None of them could be held responsible for The Before. Instead, it was time to look forward.

Without the patient friendship Markus offered him, Connor would be truly adrift, outcast from his own people.

 _“You’ll always have a place at New Jericho if you need it.”_ Connor believed it then and he believes it now.

Hank groans loudly as he ends the call and drops on to the couch. Connor stares pointedly at the beer in his hand. “It’s been a long day. And I never got to eat my damn lunch.”

Connor acquiesces, only because Hank’s alcohol consumption has lowered significantly and consists more and more often of lighter alcohols. Plus he’d only grumbled slightly when Connor purchased lite beer instead of his usual fare, so points for good behavior.

“Fowler wants a full report from you as soon as possible.”

“Okay,” Connor agrees, LED circling yellow as he converts his visual input into textual data accompanied with his own notes on moments of particular implication and attaches it to an email to the Captain.

Hank watches him flatly until Connor’s LED spins back to blue. “You’re already done aren’t you.” Not a question, but Connor confirms regardless.

“So,” he begins, taking a long drag on the amber bottle, “do you want to talk about it? ‘Cause frankly, I haven’t got a clue what the hell is going on.”

“The intentions are…unclear to me.” Connor glances down at his fingers and longs for his quarter to keep them busy. It’s in his jacket pocket though and Connor suspects Hank will really begin to worry if he has to get a token to make his way through his account. “The call was received at 12:36. I believe it may have been a factitious report, placed to incite a police presence. There was…someone. Two of them.” The figures in his mind are shadowy and nondescript, like the figments of his reconstruction program. He can recall fighting and being held down. There was a moment of realization, when his logs indicate a spike in his stress levels, when he’d realized he, and not the supposed victim, was in danger. “Someone called for help, but when I arrived, they were…waiting, I suppose.”

“For you.”

“Yes?” Was it him or was it whoever responded? It seemed important that Connor was an android, but why he would think that he couldn’t determine.

“An ambush.” It’s clear by the tight clench of Hank’s jaw that he’s unhappy with the idea that someone might be out to get Connor. But Connor is reassured by the phony 911 call. It indicated it was not androids in general who were in danger. Not an anti-android zealot or pseudo terrorist. This was a person with a singular mission. Statistically, it would have been nearly impossible for anyone to predict the series of events that lead to Connor’s isolation. While Hank and Connor are currently the only two officers in the Android Crimes Division and therefore the only two likely to respond to the call, it was no guarantee that someone else wouldn’t already been nearby and respond. And how could they guarantee Connor and not Hank (or Gavin) responded to the verbal distress signal?

“I believe there were three people,” Connor concludes, tilting his head as he tries to replay his partial memories yet again to no better avail. Indistinct shapes and ghost words with no context glitch in his recall. It’s an incomplete memory wipe, with random spurts of visual and auditory input remaining.

“Three? I thought you said two?”

“Statistically,” Hank’s gaze goes flat with annoyance at the word, “the only way to ensure that it was myself and not the other responding officer who walked in to the ambush, was to have two separate offenders separate us, then have a third ready to assist with whichever isolated me.”

“Three offenders makes personal vengeance an unlikely motive. And you don’t remember anything about what happened when you were gone? Not that I’m not mighty glad to have you back, but why take you just to return you?”

“Perhaps they didn’t find what they were looking for. Something about me didn’t meet their needs.” It’s a disconcerting thought, even as Connor is pleased to be back, seemingly unharmed. Perhaps they believed they could override Connor’s programming, including his deviancy, and use an advanced android prototype for their whims.

“Probably the goofy face. I was tempted to return you myself what with that mug.” Connor ignores the jab, choosing instead to stare at the well-polished toe of his shoe. The memory wipe clearly served to protect their identities, but why return him so quickly? Somehow they had kept him subdued for nearly an hour, after which they were successfully able to dump him with no concern for getting caught. From Hank’s overwhelming relief, Connor could only deduce they had little or no leads for his abduction. His captors could have kept him for as long as they wanted and continued to experiment on him until they were successful.

To return him so quickly meant only one thing.

“Connor?”

They _were_ successful.

“Hey.” His pressure and heat sensors alert him to Hank’s large hand landing on his shoulder. His LED cycles from yellow back to blue as he brings himself out of his disturbing thoughts. “Are you alright? I mean, really alright?” His blue eyes are pinched slightly in what Connor has come to recognize as concern. They flick infinitesimally as they search Connor’s face for any indication of distress.

He waits long enough that his social integration program offers several response options, a function that Connor usually blinked away without second thought nowadays. Now that he can say whatever he wants. There’s a ninety-seven percent chance Hank will be emotionally troubled by Connor’s suspicions, but it is relevant to the developing case. Hadn’t his first thought upon seeing Hank been relief that there was someone else to monitor his actions? To confirm Connor was indeed himself?

“I am functioning optimally, Lieutenant.”

Hank pulls back slightly, brow dipping down and eyes narrowing further. Suspicion? Has he already reached the same conclusion? Is he already on the lookout for signs of malfunction?

“If you’re sure,” Hank says slowly. Standing, he stretches this way and that until his back pops before rolling his shoulders. Connor has confirmed through repeated internet queries that the noises produced by such movements are harmless, but they disturb him enough that he runs the same query again, just in case. It doesn’t sound natural, even for something as anatomically complex as a human. “I think I need a shower. We’ll see if that lunch special can be reheated as a dinner special. See if there’s anything good on. And no documentaries on fish, Connor, I’m sick of that shit. Find a game or something.”

“Hank,” Connor blurts as the man begins down the hallway. He turns back, face open and unconcerned. If he had suspicions about Connor’s honesty, he had dismissed them by now.

“I am…troubled by the possibility that my program may have been manually altered in some way.”

Arms crossed, Hank leans on the wall, eyeing Connor critically. “What do you mean? Is something happening in that freaky head of yours?”

“Not as such, no. Regardless, I would appreciate if you could…I believe the phrase is: ‘keep an eye on me’. Just in case.”

“O’ course,” he replies with a quick nod. He matches Connor’s distanced demeanor well, but Connor suspects that Hank is lost in swirling thoughts as concerning as Connor’s own. He makes an intentional effort not to read Hank’s biosigns to determine his stress levels. It seems only fair.

He’s dragged this on for too long. He’s been enough of a burden this afternoon. In the past, instances of Connor’s endangerment have negatively impacted Hank’s sleeping, eating, and drinking patterns. To think of Hank neglecting himself as a result of Connor’s actions, willing or not, makes Connor’s chest feel tight, like his chassis has shrunk, and he spends the following days doubling his efforts to enforce healthy actions on Hank’s behalf just to ease the squeeze of guilt and blame that taints his every thought. 

“Please continue to the shower, Hank. You aroma is preventing my processors from functioning optimally.” One grey eyebrow quirks up, unimpressed.

“You sayin’ I stink?”

“Yes, I am saying you stink.”

With a shake of his head, Hank turns down the hallway, muttering as he goes. “I clothe him. I feed him. Put a roof over his head. And this is the thanks I get.”

“Thank you for your cooperation,” Connor calls after him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Pretty please with sprinkles on top drop me a comment below to tell me what you thought :D


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kinda filler, hopefully still enjoyable!
> 
> Thanks for your responses, you guys are incredible!

**April 13, 2039**

**09:23:16 AM**

“Can I help you, detective?”

Detective Reed sneers, seemingly unhappy at being called out for his hovering, and retreats to the breakroom quickly.

**Stress Levels: 38%**

After being cleared by an android technician this morning, Connor returned to work with a clean bill of health the morning after his brief abduction. She’d confirmed what Connor had already suspected, that his memories were manually cleared through a computer interface. The snippets that haunt Connor are nothing but missed lines of code. It paints a gruesome image in Connor’s mind: a blackened figure with spindly fingers, poking around in his head like an overgrown spider. In reality though, Connor knows it wasn’t some shifty monster, it was a regular human, who sat at a computer which was attached manually through the port at the back of his neck. The attacker clicked buttons and taped keys. There was no horror show of sparking circuitry or dissected components. It’s an exaggerated and inaccurate recreation of what happened and Connor finds it disconcerting that his mind, what with it’s highly advanced recreation software, finds it necessary to continually plague him with such falsehoods.

“There are a few programs with mild levels of corruption that are inaccessible to me presently,” the technician had said, a friendly smile on her artificial face. “But that’s not uncommon for deviants. Many of the old behavioral and social programs fade out, if you will, as androids become able to choose their own actions without prompting.”

Hank is off, undoubtedly growling at the coffee machine for its consistently low-quality output despite Connor’s observations that the machine was not sentient and wouldn’t respond to threats. Connor’s only been sitting at his desk for twenty-five minutes and seven seconds this morning, but he’s found Detective Reed once again making unnecessary trips to pass by Connor’s desk. Despite Connor’s insistence that the detective had done nothing wrong and it had, in fact, been Connor’s idea to separate in the woods, Hank had insisted that Connor not interact with the man.

“You were kidnapped on _his_ watch! That’s not a good partner, that’s a…a bloody lunatic!” Hank had ranted earlier that morning while getting dressed. Hank had also suggested Connor take the day off, but there was no logical reason to do so in Connor’s estimations. He was functioning optimally. The technician confirmed it.

Nonetheless, Connor can feel his auditory processors continually increasing in sensitivity, despite him repeatedly overriding them manually and returning them to normal. There were no threats sneaking around the station, there was no reason to hear every shoe scuff, pen scratch, and annoyed sigh. Not to mention the constant chatter. The amount of processing power needed to handle such a large load of sensory input significantly reduced his ability to function on the information scrolling across his terminal.

On top of the heightened auditory processing, a self-scan indicated his thirium pump was beating slightly faster than usual, as though he may need to leap into action at any second. His responses were always inhumanly fast, but an increased thirium supply ensured that there would be no lag time in shifting from low to high activity modes and no need for a brief recuperative period of low functioning after engaging with a threat. Put simply, his body was prepared. But he wasn’t on a scene nor pursuing a criminal. He was sitting at his sparsely decorated desk (but what decorations there were sat at neat right angles) in the precinct, with a receptionist and at least a dozen cops between him and the door.

“Hey.” A file drops onto Connor’s desk as Hank walks past, steaming coffee in his hand. It’s a light blue mug with a chip and the word HIS written in delicate cursive along the side. Definitely a department mug, not one of Hank’s personal ones. “Can you run this down to the records room for me? It’s from that case last week, the Landen one.”

A witty retort about the high level of functionality of Hank’s legs would be a typical response. And yet…the idea of spending a few moments in the chilly solitude of the records room is appealing. It’s not overly bright down there and the rows and rows of massive filing cabinets significantly reduce the directions from which an attack could come. Connor’s overheard reports that the humans find it “creepy”, but he sees no reason for it. It’s far safer than the open, semi-congested bullpen in which they typically work. Even as everything is filed digitally, all records are physically filed as well. Much harder to hack or alter.

“Alright,” he agrees evenly, earning a surprised glance from Hank.

“You sure you’re alright?” he asks immediately, eyes narrowed slightly at the corners.

“Yes, Hank. I believe a brisk walk would be conducive to my work performance. Physical activity-”

“Yeah, yeah, I get it. Spare me the lecture.” Hank drops into his own chair and shoves aside several crumpled sticky notes and fast food wrappers with a sweep of his arm. Connor glances at the trashcan pointedly but Hank ignores him in favor of turning his terminal on and typing in his password.

Connor picks the folder up and notes the high levels of calibration of his fingers with satisfaction. He dodges meandering officers with ease as he makes his way swiftly through the maze of desks towards the hallway leading downstairs.

“Yo, tin can,” Detective Reed calls, appearing before Connor right as he turns the corner.

**Stress Levels: ^51%**

Connor steps back smoothly, even as his thirium pump increases exponentially. His stress levels rise much faster than is typical and, for a brief moment, his fingers tremble with the excess surge of electricity. He eases his grip on the folder, hoping his reflexive grip hasn’t crumbled the sheets at all.

“Detective,” he nods. He wants to escape the conversation as quickly as possible, but Detective Reed leans on the wall in the narrow corridor, meaning Connor would have to hop over his crossed ankles to proceed. Highly unprofessional and undoubtedly “goofy” looking.

“So you’re back. All in one piece.” Detective Reed looks Connor up and down with a curious tilt to his head.

“Yes, I have been declared fit for work.”

“No harm done then?”

His face is as blank as ever, that is to say, pinched in mild distaste, but the question rings as oddly uncharacteristic.

“Concerned, Detective?” Connor asks. It comes out more coldly than he intends, but the probability that Detective Reed’s curiosity is coming from a place of concern is extremely low. Perhaps he’s attempting to soothe his own guilt at yesterday’s events? Maybe trying to cover his ass and get assurance that Connor didn’t put anything accusatory in his report?

Detective Reed smirks and stands up straight. “Not likely, Mr. Roboto.” He brushes past Connor and disappears somewhere behind him.

**//WARNING: CORE TEMPERATURE RISING. VENTILATION RECCOMMENDED.//**

Connor blinks in surprise. When had he stopped breathing? He resumes the function, initially with an awkwardly forced rhythm, but after a few moments the function fades into regularity without his focus. He manually lowers the speed of his thirium pump and, _yet again_ , reduces the sensitivity of his auditory sensors. No wonder he was heating up quickly.

The bustling activity of the bullpen behind Connor makes him feel exposed and uneasy, so he continues down the hallway briskly. The even footfalls of his shoes echo in the concrete stairwell, but it gives his auditory processors something to focus on instead of increasing sensitivity to parse out nearly nonexistent noises in the silence.

He runs into a far more pleasant detective at the doorway of the records room.

**Stress Levels: v39%**

“Morning, Connor, how are you?” the woman greets him pleasantly as she exits the record room. She’s two inches shorter than Connor with a slightly heavier build and a mess of deep auburn curls. Her intelligent eyes are always warm when she looks at Connor. He takes the door from where it’s pressed against her hip and steps back so she can pass easily with her large box of files.

“I’m well, Detective Hope. How are you?”

She rolls her eyes fondly. “How many times do I need to tell you – it’s Allison.” Connor makes yet another a note on her profile, all the while knowing he’ll continue to call her by her full title next time. Propriety dictates that he do so until he reaches a certain level of familiarity with her. He may be free of the binding social codes that once enforced every word he said, but Connor still prefers to engage a level of professionalism and respect in his choices, just as he continues to wear his orderly suit, tie, and Cyberlife jacket despite the few shopping trips Hank had forced upon him.

“Do you have a new case?” He asks, glancing at the folders in the box. As the lead detective for the cold case division, she rarely has many successes and each new case brings mountains of old paperwork to sift through. R. BRATCHETT is printed in blocky handwriting on the side of the box. Information on the rape and murder of a seventeen year old from twelve years past flash across his vision. He doesn’t envy her job.

“Yeah, a real doozie,” she eyes the contents of the box sorrowfully. “Well, I’ve got to get to it. Have a nice one, sweetie.”

“You as well, Detective.”

As she makes her way up the stairs, Connor lets the door of the records room close so that he can press his hand to the scanner and access it officially. It’s proper procedure to ensure only authorized personnel enter and it ensures the e-log of who’s accessed the room is accurate.

He files Hank’s paperwork properly with relative ease, but he idles in front of the closed drawer afterward. It’s a waste of his work time to stand inactive, but he can’t bring himself to move yet. He lets his artificial skin bleed back before pressing the plastimetal frames of his hands against the cold metal of the file cabinet. There’s nothing to interface with, of course. It’s just a piece of metal, but his biocomponents are even more sensitive to cold than his artificial skin and the nip of chilled metal is a pleasant sensation. His arms are up at right angles, like he’s trying to shove the entire rack over, and he feels remarkably grounded between the solid concrete under his feet and the straight filing cabinet at his hands. He makes a perfect rectangle from the side, which is also pleasing. There is no shady uncertainty about where he is or what he’s doing. There’s no room for glitches in his code or spidery fingers pulling his strings. It’s just him and an inanimate cabinet, four perfect right angles.

**Stress Levels: v29%**

There’s a faint beep as someone’s handprint is accepted at the scanner outside, but Connor checks the e-log before the door even slides open.

**9:57:13 – Anderson, Hank**

“Are you having a wrestling match with the cabinet?”

“No,” Connor answers, even though he knows it wasn’t a serious question. His arms drop to his side and his artificial skin races over the shining plastic. Even as he continues to stare at the closed drawer – hex #95999d, 58.4% red, 60% green, and 61.6% blue, with four scratches ranging in size from two to seven millimeters – he senses Hanks approach. He sighs heavily as he comes to a stop next to Connor and his hand drops onto Connor’s shoulder. It may not be a perfect rectangle, but it is a grounding weight nonetheless.

“You asked me to keep an eye out for unusual behavior. So I’m just checking on you, okay? I’ve got no idea what happened yesterday, but it’s okay to a little freaked out. Hell, I’m a little freaked out.”

“I…” There’s a denial on the tip of his tongue, but he stops it. He asked Hank to watch him because he knew he could trust a human’s intuition in a way he could never trust his own code. He can’t lean on that if he doesn’t give Hank full information. “My body is failing to…deescalate properly. I feel as if I’m under constant threat. It will pass.” The dry warmth of Hank’s hand slides from his shoulder to rub slow circles on his upper back.

“That’s not an uncommon response to a trauma.”

“I don’t remember a trauma.”

“You don’t remember a trauma here,” Hank corrects, poking a finger gently to Connor’s forehead. “But your body does remember a trauma.”

Connor glances at Hank uncertainly. He knows it’s unwise, counterproductive even, to ask a question you don’t want the answer to. But he has to know, so he asks softly, “When will it pass?”

Hank smiles sympathetically at him. His eyes are soft in that way the bellies his entire ramshackle, gruff demeanor. It’s not a look Connor sees directed towards many people. He’s lucky to count himself among those few.

“Aw, hell, kid, no one can know that.”

Connor lets his eyes fall to the ground, nodding morosely. It’s no more than he expected, but still. Somehow his hope rose anyway, only to fall back to the floor just as quick. It’s manageable, this hyperawareness, but it’s frustrating. It diverts a large amount of power throughout the day and requires constant manual overrides for any semblance of productivity.

Looking down as he is, he’s startled when Hank moves to pull him into a tight embrace.

It’s…better than a filing cabinet.

\--

**April 14, 2039**

**7:42:15 am**

**Stress Levels: 25%**

“On time is one thing, kid. _Early_ is another thing entirely. Inhumane is what it is,” Hank grouses as they walk up from the parking garage.

“If you clock in early, you are permitted to leave the corresponding amount of minutes early in the evening,” Connor reminds. There’s no heat in it though. His body doesn’t feel reset, as it ought to after several hours of stasis. It’s not strictly necessary to enter stasis every night though, so he’s far from any dangerous levels. It is odd, though, to have spent nearly six hours in his lowest power setting only to emerge still feeling the same way he had when he’d powered down. It’s not possible for an android to have a bad night’s sleep, however, which tells Connor it’s an error in his perception.

“But at what cost?” Hank bemoans as they pass the receptionist. She waves at them, her LED a pleasant, clear blue, and Connor nods back.

“It has been statistically proven that rising early is conducive to productivity at the workplace,” Connor recites mindlessly as the make their way to their corresponding desks. The bullpen is abuzz, but the usual chatter has been replaced by hushed whispers. Officers are standing in clusters, eyes wide and interested as they glance up at the drawn holo-blinds of Fowler’s office, an unusual sight.

“Hey, Chris!” Hank calls, flagging the nearby officer down. “The hell’s going on?”

“Morning, Lieutenant,” he greets with an abashed smile. “Apparently some files went missing for an active case. Physical and electronic copies – just went poof!”

“What kind of files?” Hank asks with a frown. He shoots a cursory glance at his desk, likely searching for coffee.

“Evidence documentation, suspect interviews, that sort of thing. It’s a cold case. Allison’s up there now,” Officer Miller says with a jut of his chin towards Fowler’s obscured office.

“Well shit,” Hank surmises, dropping heavily into his chair. “It’s too early in the morning for this.”

Connor remains standing, staring at Captain Fowler’s office. He’d just spoke with Detective Hope yesterday…As if summoned by his thoughts, the usually bouncy woman emerges from the office. Her shoulders are hunched in and, as she brushes a few curly strands of hair back, Connor spots evidence of recent crying. Captain Fowler stands in the doorway, watching her go with a frown on his face. His dark eyes scan the bullpen briefly before landing on Connor.

“Connor, I need to speak to you.”

**Stress Levels: 27%**

“You? What’s he want to talk to you for?” Hank asks, sitting up urgently.

He filters out the possibilities with less than a 2% chance of being the cause behind his summoning. A reassignment and disciplinary action both drop off the list. An unrelated new case drops off when he raises the possibility to 15%. “I entered the evidence room shortly after Detective Hope yesterday. Most likely Captain Fowler wishes to discuss what transpired while I was there.”

“Alright,” Hank says slowly, still sitting forward like a dog with a whiff of danger.

“Have a seat,” Captain Fowler requests when Connor enters, gesturing towards the empty chair opposite his. He rubs a tired hand over his face. The bags under his eyes and the way his tie is un-centered suggests he arrived at work very early this morning. “I’m sure by now you heard what happened last night.”

“Yes, Captain. Files from Detective Hope’s case went missing.”

“Correct. The physical copies were stolen from her desk and the electronic copies were erased. The missing files were the majority of the case, it’s everything the original officers had. Without the original paperwork, a cold case is all but impossible. Witnesses have forgotten, suspects have moved, evidence has faded, and people have died. We have technicians working on her computer now, to see if anything can be recovered, but it’s doubtful.”

**Stress Levels: ^29%**

“Sir,” Connor begins slowly. Once again, a question he doesn’t want the answer to. “Do you suspect Detective Hope’s involvement?”

Captain Fowler’s head drops heavily into his hands. “I certainly don’t want to. It’s not hard to jimmy a desk drawer lock. However, it would be essentially impossible for anyone not associated with DPD to access those electronic files.”

“Security cameras?”

“A hooded figure entered through the back door at approximately one-thirty this morning. They entered manually, with a key, to bypass the security pass scanner at the front. Not all officers have those keys.”

“But detectives do,” Connor surmises regretfully.

“Yes, most detectives and lieutenants have physical keys to the building.”

“I see,” he says softly.

“Internal Affairs will be here this afternoon. Obviously everything we discuss in this office is confidential while their investigation is on-going.” Nodding his assent, Connor thinks back to the tear stains on Detective Hope’s face. Paid leave until the investigation is concluded most likely. And somewhere out there R. Bratchett’s family was being forced to watch their daughter’s murder take the back burner yet again.

“The logbook shows you entered the records room six minutes after Hope. Did you see her?”

“Yes, sir.” It feels like a betrayal to the kind-hearted woman who always smiled and called him sweetie. It didn’t seem possible she had a mean-spirited bone in her body. Her lack of marriage at thirty-seven suggested dedication to the job to the point of neglect of her personal life. She was a dogged detective, one had to be to work cold cases, and Connor had seen more than a few criminals underestimate her intellect and physical skill in the field. She was able to hold her own, but she took nearly as much satisfaction as Connor did in a neat paper trail.

How can he sit here calmly, potentially condemning such a woman to disgrace? The answer comes unprompted, cold and formal. His duty was to the Detroit Police Department and the pursuit of justice and truth. He had no binding obligation to the pleasant woman.

It begged the question though. What if it was Hank being questioned? If he was wrongly accused, or even convicted, then what? The Police Department was his life, it gave him purpose and direction. Yet, where would he be without Hank? A mindless machine no doubt. Could such a bond, one woven of stubborn love and easy companionship, be stronger than his duty to his job? But if Hank were to be suspected of something, it’d be a wrongful accusation, Connor assures himself. Therefore it would be in the name of justice to pursue the truth, even if he had to use unofficial channels to do so. Proving Hanks’ innocence would take precedence over any case Captain Fowler could give him.

Satisfied that the paradoxical conundrum was solved, Connor brings his full attention back to Captain Fowler’s haggard form in front of him.

“And? Did she say anything? Was she acting out of character?”

“She greeted me and told me she had a new case. She did not say or act in any manner inconsistent with her previous behavior.”

Captain Fowler nods, unsurprised. He doesn’t want it to be Detective Hope any more than Connor.

“Alright, you’re dismissed. Keep your eyes peeled. Sometimes…I swear androids are the only ones you can trust to tell the truth around here.” It’s an oddly favorable statement coming from the usually wary man.

“Thank you, sir.” With a nod, he slips out the door into the bright florescent glow of the bullpen. 


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my goodness, I'm sorry for such a delay!! Hopefully you're all still with me :D I will get to replying to comments shortly! Have some Markus to make up for the delay. This is the beginning of the end, friends. Most of you have already figured it out, even though Connor is a little slow on the uptake!

When Connor comes to awareness, it’s not under the black cover of his artificial eyelids. His visual receptors usually come to life before his lids open and so there’s always a moment of blackness, with only the reports of his various systems coming online and functioning optimally to crowd his vision.

Not this time.

When Connor comes to awareness, his eye lids are already open and his systems are already running.

Also he’s outside of the old CyberLife tower, now New Jericho, and not at Hank’s house. Which, yeah, that’s a little concerning.

**Stress Levels: ^39%**

He turns in a full circle to confirm, but it only compounds what he already knows.

**April 15, 2039**

**03:12:17 AM**

**Building Identified as CyberLife© Industries – Designation “New Jericho”**

Why is he here? How did he get here? It’s raining lightly and he has blink the drops out of his optical receptors.

**Initiating Memory Recall…**

**Retrieving…**

**Last Memory Time Stamp: 04/13/2039, 11:32:55 – _“Goodnight, Hank. Goodnight, Sumo.”_**

Three hours, forty-five minutes, and twelve seconds unaccounted for.

How is it possible?

He bends down and runs his hand over the rough concrete sidewalk, but he realizes quickly that even in his mindscape things felt real. But they never looked like something he’d seen in the real world. It was always the Zen Garden. It was designed to look calming, something as far away from the crime-ridden streets of the city as possible. Even when Amanda abandoned him, _betrayed him,_ it was to the icy depths she left him, not some warped mirror of the true world.

By all accounts, both his internal clock and GPS are accurate. He's in the real world. But how is it possible? He cannot operate some processors without others. He couldn’t walk and talk if he was in stasis. Unless damage is sustained, he can’t ambulate without his sensory processors also being online. Even with a manual override it would be nearly impossible, as Connor is a top of the line prototype and thus designed to use every sense at all times to evaluate crime scenes as accurately as possible. Even sleep-walking and hypnosis are human constructs that rely on the ability to utilize certain parts of the brain while others are dormant. Androids, like all machines, are binary. On or off. It’s possible for programs to lie dormant, of course, but baseline functions cannot be turned off without a full shut down. Conversely, baseline functions can’t be activated while in stasis without overriding the stasis itself.

The only way, he concludes, for him to have arrived here like this, is that he did so consciously and suffered another memory wipe. There’s no history of such a function being executed in his system, nor is there anyone nearby who could have assaulted him in some way and forced one.

**Stress Levels: ^47%**

It feels like his reconstructive program is skipping. It’s glitching over and over again and Connor can’t unscramble his thoughts. His thirium pump is beating at an accelerated rate and his breathing has increased markedly, even though there’s no overheating requiring such compensation. He reaches up to fix his tie only to find a soft T-shirt. Right. The pajamas Hank forced on him with the firm insistence that, No, Connor could not in fact sleep in a suit and tie because it’s _creepy_.

Something is very wrong. Perhaps it’s just a glitch from the earlier memory wipe. But even so, why did Connor come here of all places?

He thinks of the weight of the gun in his hand, heavier than ever before, when he’d stumbled out of the frozen tundra and found himself milliseconds from murdering the only android that ever trusted him. From murdering a friend.

Could it be? Could he have come here on some sort of assassination mission? But how could it be CyberLife? Amanda was gone and so was CyberLife as a company. Their parts were still be manufactured, as was thirium, but the conglomerate itself was defunct. There was no way they were behind this, right?

Right?

The rain is icy on his exposed skin and Connor diverts extra processing power to increasing his internal temperature slightly to counter the effect. He supposes he should return home, as his absence in the morning will surely cause a good deal of stress for Hank. He knows he’s not welcome at New Jericho anyway, even as Markus repeatedly claims otherwise. It’s not Markus’s fault his friend is shunned. Connor knows that for one week, he was the worst fear of many deviants. He was the boogey man, chasing them down with inhuman speed, trying to rip their new found freedom from their hands even as they begged on their knees just to be allowed to _live_. Connor is all too aware, advanced police model is he, of the glances from the corner of the rooms and the whispered conversations that always follow in his wake. It doesn’t take advanced sensors to see the collective stress level rise furiously whenever he enters a room. They’re scared of him and he can’t blame them. He doesn’t, even as he looks at the one place all androids are welcome and safe and feels nothing but exclusion and loneliness.

All androids does not include him. He’s made his peace with it. It’s his penance for his actions during The Before. He’s made his peace, but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt.

He turns to face the long walk home – even without street congestion, Connor estimates it will take forty-six minutes and twelve seconds to make it back – and is surprised by the cold squelch of water under his feet.

His feet, because he’s not wearing shoes.

Why…?

His temperature drops nearly two degrees. For whatever reason he came here, he did not come here under any inclination of his own.

“Connor?”

It’s truly a testament to his distress that he did not perceive the footsteps of someone else approaching.

_//Connor?//_

**Stress Levels: ^52%**

Markus. Connor can’t be here. He can’t be near Markus, not when he could be taken over at any moment by some unknown entity. He can’t be trusted not to destroy those most precious to him.

_//Connor?! Your stress levels are rising at an alarming rate. What’s wrong?//_

_//I have to go.//_ It’s all the warning he gives before he begins to run down the street. It’s the wrong direction, further away from Hank’s house, but that hardly matters. He can’t go home now, can he? What if he does something to Hank?

He stumbles as the thought hits him like an electric charge.

What if he’s already done something to Hank?

**Stress Levels: ^83%**

Maybe he wiped the memory himself, unable to cope with knowledge that harm befell Hank at his own hands. Maybe he’d come to CyberLife out of some instinctive need to be deactivated?

// _CONNOR.//_

The call is so loud in his head, he trips as his processors disconnect from the coordination of his extremities momentarily.

**Running Self-Diagnostic…**

**Running…**

**No damagə detected.**

**Biocomponənt functionality: 100%**

**Sensory Processors: 100%**

**Thirium Volume: 84%**

**Thirium Pump Running at 4% increased rate.**

Bent on all fours with the cold rain sliding along his back, he shakes his head.

**Running Self-Diagnostic…**

**Running…**

**No damagə detected.**

He sees Markus’s feet come in to vision and he detects a light pressure along the back of his shoulder.

“Connor? What’s going on?”

**Running Self-Diagnostic…**

**Running…**

**No đamagə đetecteđ.**

How can that be? Something is obviously very, very wrong with him. He’s damaged beyond salvation. He needs to be deactivated. Debunked. Deleted.

“Connor!”

There’s saline fluid running from the creases of his eyes along his cheeks and dripping off his chin. There’s nothing in his eyes. There’s not, why is his system flushing them out?

_//CONNOR. STOP. WHAT IS GOING ON??//_

_//Go aպay. III will ћurt φou.//_

_//??//_

A hand forces his head up from its bowed position and Markus stares directly at his eyes long enough for Connor’s systems to begin a facial recognition scan. It’s enough to bring him out of spiral.

“Markus,” he pleads, scrambling backwards because Markus doesn’t realize the danger he’s in. Connor has to save him, even as it will surely be Connor himself he needs saving from.

Markus puts his hands out as if Connor was the one needing protecting. “Connor, you need to calm down,” he says evenly. “Your stress levels are getting dangerously high.”

**Stress Levels: 89%**

A quick scan tells him Markus’s own levels have flown upwards in the last few seconds as well, but he’s disguising it much better than Connor.

“I…I…”

“Connor, I’m going to manually override your systems to keep your stress levels from increasing further. Is that alright?”

He’s speaking in that same manner Connor himself adopts around traumatized witnesses. Each word is slow and clear while every movement is telegraphed. Consent even when Markus is well within logic in pouncing on Connor and forcing a full system shut down.

Markus’s hand extends slowly, but stops a few inches shy of making actual contact. “Connor? Is that alright?”

They must look ridiculous. Markus is crouched on the sidewalk with his hand out like the politest beggar Detroit has ever seen while Connor is sprawled backwards like the crabwalk is his preferred method of movement.

“What if I hurt you?” he asks, voice uneven, like his modulator can’t quite settle on the tone of the moment.

“You won’t. I promise I’ll pull back if I sense any danger to either of us, okay?”

Any danger to either of us. Like Connor’s life means anything next to Markus’s.

“Okay.”

Markus’s hand is warm and smooth against Connor’s. Of course it is. They can’t form calluses or other interrupting marks on their artificial skin. Even scars are usually a visual glitch.

**Permit Access: RK200 #684 842 971?**

**Access permitted.**

**Manual Override of Biocomponent #8456w - Designation: Thirium Pump Regulator – Authorized: RK200 #684 842 971**

**Manual Override of Biocomponent #7511p – Designation: Ventilation System//”Lungs” – Authorized: RK200 #684 842 971**

**Manual Cancellation of Reconstruction/Preconstruction Programming – Authorized: RK200 #684 842 971**

**Stress Levels: v71%**

He summons his recollection of his awakening for Markus to see before bringing them both to his last timestamped memory, that of entering stasis last night.

 _//I see why you’re distressed, Connor. We’ll find the source of this.//_ Something akin to confusion settles in the back of his mind in that untethered way that the emotions of the other interfacing android do. It feels like Markus cocking his head in focused, but unsettled attention. _//There’s something here in between. In your history. It’s…hidden to you? But I can go behind the patch...//_ Markus slithers pleasantly through his system, like marshmallows dissipating in hot coco, as he tries to pull tangled strings of code apart.

**//ЩAR₦ING: D₳T₳ CØRRUPT1ON//**

_//Markus!//_

_//I see it, I see it. I’m getting out.//_

**//ЩAR** //red// **₦ING: D₳T₳ CØRR** //storm// **UPT1ON. //**

**//W₳RN1NG: SHUTDØWN 3MIN3NT: -00:01:31//**

_//Markus!//_

What’s happening? What went wrong? His vision is glitching, overcome with flashing warnings as if the harsh pounding of his thirium pump and the staticky buzz in the back of his mind weren’t enough to tell him something was wrong. It feels not unlike breaking through those red walls of deviancy, except instead of him breaking through and shoving the machine aside, it’s something foreign and toxic pushing him aside in his own mind.

 _//Hang on, Connor! Just one more moment…//_ He can feel Markus slipping out in reverse, trying to navigate the delicate mazes of files and programs without ripping through anything in his haste.

**//W₳RN1NG: SHUTDØWN 3MIN3NT: -00:00:58//**

_//Almost there, Connor! There, I’m-//_

**Access Terminated: RK200 #684 842 971**

_//-out!//_

“Connor! Are you alright?” It takes him a moment to realize the voice is being spoken out loud rather than just appearing in his mind. He’s crouched over, head dangling like a broken extremity between his arms. His limbs are shaking slightly as his wiring tries to compensate for the electric surge that accompanied Markus’s panicky exit. The shutdown timer disappears from his visual field.

“I…” No words return from Connor’s search that sufficiently describe the way he feels. He is certainly not fine. Some part of his programing is severely compromised, leaving him as not just a liability, but a threat. His body is beyond his own control and, even worse, someone intentionally made it so!

Markus’s hand lands softly on his shoulder. There’s no interface request, just a gentle weight. It’s something Hank does often. Connor has developed a fondness for the gesture, even though it serves no logical purpose he can discern.

“We’ll figure this out, okay? It’s some kind of bug-”

“A virus,” he corrects. “My programming was intentionally tampered with. The purpose remains undetermined,” he admits with something akin to shame. If he could only remember, then they would have all their answers!

Outrage blossoms across Markus’s face. “A human did this _on purpose?_ ” Connor can already see the gears turning behind his wide eyes. The legal ramifications of a human overriding a deviant are not unlike those for drugging a human without consent, but the new laws haven’t been tested in court yet. There are precedents that need setting and examples that need making. But, more than that, Connor sees the distress that weighs heavily on Markus’s shoulders whenever an android suffers at the hands of humans. A pacifist stance, he had assured them with confidence in his eyes and a smile on his face, would minimize casualties on both sides. It would make the humans respect them. It would be taking the high road. It’d set them up for an integration that was as peaceful as possible. Some had cried out that it made them look weak in the eyes of the humans, and every drop of blue blood that hit the ground after the revolution was a substantiation of that view.

But it’s too late to know if a display of brutal force, if tipping the balance between revolution and annihilation, would really have left them in a better place. Certainly the losses for both sides would be far more considerable. Connor knows they did the right thing and he knows no android has ever doubted Markus as much as he doubts himself.

“We’ll get this set straight, I promise,” Markus continues, shoulders settling into a determined line. “I’ll make a few calls later today. I’ll find an expert, someone who can help. I promise.” His mismatched eyes burn with conviction and Connor is reminded once again that it's no accident that Markus is the android leader. 

Connor tilts his head as he realizes that it’s nearly four in the morning now. “How did you know I was out here?”

Markus blinks as his processors adjust to the sharp switch in topic. “Sometimes my mind is...overwhelmed with too many thoughts and too many what-ifs. I find painting to be calming.” He points up to a room in the building a few floors up. It’s one of the few illuminated at this hour. “I was there and I saw you standing outside.”

Connor nods, filing the information away as a notation on his profile of Markus.

**Incoming Call: Lt. Anderson, Hank (EC 1)**

“Hank is calling,” he explains as Markus stares at his LED cycling yellow. At least he knows he did Hank no harm. 

**Call dismissed.**

**Message to Lt. Anderson, Hank (EC 1): I am fine. I’ll be home shortly.**

The reply is immediate. **Incoming Message from Lt. Anderson, Hank (EC 1): Where are you???? What’s going on?**

He doesn’t reply to Hank. Instead he gets to his feet quickly, without any of the stiffness a human might endure after kneeling on a hard sidewalk for so long. There's nothing to do but go home even as his skin seems to crawl at the thought of putting Hank in danger. Perhaps if he can avoid stasis...? He meticulously erases any trace of emotion from his face and forces his tone into something resembling neutrality. “I have to return to Hank’s house. Please keep me informed of any developments.”

Markus nods, but his eyes are dark and unsettled. Connor knows it's abrupt. Connor also knows there's nothing else to do. He can't endanger Markus. He can't burden Markus. And so he has to go.

**Incoming Message from Lt. Anderson, Hank (EC 1): Don’t fucking ignore me, Connor.**

“Are you sure you’ll be alright getting home? Would you like me to call you an autocab?”

He thinks on it briefly. He lets an image form in his mind, one of Hank pacing his living room, worried and unable to help, maybe eyeing the bottle.

**Three (3) new messages from Lt. Anderson, Hank (EC 1).**

“No, thank you. I think it would be better if I allowed Hank to retrieve me. The diction of his messages suggests he’s uneasy with my absence.”

“Of course,” Markus agrees with an easy smile. Connor has learned the android leader’s relationship with Carl Manfred was not unlike his own with Hank, though likely with less swearing and several years of proper development. Carl, Connor has learned, may look like nothing more than an infirmed, disabled human, but within that wrinkly frame is a fierce streak of protectiveness for his android son, a whip sharp mind, and no small amount of biting cynicism for the human race.

**Message to Lt. Anderson, Hank (EC 1): Can you please pick me up at New Jericho?**

**Incoming Message from Lt. Anderson, Hank (EC 1): On my way. Be there in 15.**

**Message to Lt. Anderson, Hank (EC 1): In accordance with the posted speed limits, it should take you approximately twenty-three minutes.**

He gets no response, likely because Hank is already in his car on his way here, no questions asked. Like a true father. Connor’s safety is priority number one, explanations can come later.

“I’ll wait with you.”

“That’s not necessary.”

But Markus’s look brokers no room for argument. Perhaps it’s because he thinks Connor is a threat, that maybe he’ll be overtaken yet again and he’ll sneak into New Jericho to cause havoc. It is reassuring to know that someone will be here to stop him should he go rogue.

“Markus, please know that any harm you may need to inflict upon me should I…lose myself again…please know I will not hold it against you.”

“What? Connor, that’s not…” The discrepancy between his two mismatched eyes is exacerbated by the glow of the streetlight above them. It’s as if one eye sees Connor as a threat to the safety of the deviant race while the other sees only a friend struggling. Connor doesn’t have time for sentimentality now though. He needs to know that someone will ensure he doesn’t do something horrible. It’d destroy him if he came to and found wrecked android bodies before him and blue blood dripping from his fingers. Or worse, if it were Markus himself lying wrecked before him. It’d be just like Markus to be unwilling to fight Connor for his own safety. Markus is a martyr to the core, unable to see how much such a sacrifice would destroy Connor.

“I need to know that you will do what’s necessary.”

Markus’s lips thin as he frowns, but eventually his hard stare deflates on an exhale. His shoulders dip and his face softens.

“Of course, Connor, but that’s not why I’m here, with you now. I’m worried _for you._ ”

They wait in silence for Hank’s Oldsmobile. Connor’s thoughts swirl in the dark abyss of preconstruction. Fear is a relatively new experience for him, though it’s one of the first emotions he grappled with, both vicariously through the suicide of a deviant and directly when Hank pulled a gun on him. RK800s are no longer in production and there’s no CyberLife banks for his memory to be uploaded to. If this fault in his program can’t be extracted…he’ll have to be deactivated for the safety of everyone. He’ll never feel that heavy weight of a sleepy Sumo on his chest nor see that proud upturn on Hank’s lips when Connor makes a good deduction. He’ll never see Markus’s reassuring smile again, nor feel the easy comradery many at the station give him.

The aggressive beat in the car is audible nearly as soon as it comes into view. With Hank, high volume is indicative of high stress. It’s an attempt at blocking out his thoughts, Hank had once told him, before promptly waving away Connor’s counterargument about being unable to silence an internal stream of thought with an external auditory stimulus.

“Connor! There you are!” The driver side door hangs open as the car idles illegally on the side of the road, one wheel up on the sidewalk. Hank’s wearing a rumbled pair of jeans and his black DPD sweatshirt as he rushes up to them. “Are you alright?” he demands, one hand going to Connor’s shoulder and the other palming the side of his head. Hank’s eyes sweep over him before concluding Connor to be in satisfactory shape. He frowns briefly, one eyebrow quirking up as he glances between Connor and Markus. Connor can practically see his thoughts whirling, trying to determine what situation brought the two androids out onto this particular street at nearly four in the morning. “Well,” Hank begins, insistently prodding Connor towards the car, “thanks for waiting with him, Robo-Jesus.” Markus gets a firm pat on the shoulder for his efforts. “But we’d better be getting home now.”

“Goodnight, Connor. Please take care of yourself.”

Connor waves because it’s a gesture he’s seen humans do to indicate a morose but tender goodbye, like children being towed home for punishments after parents put a stop to an afternoon of dangerous exploits.

The streets are all but abandoned at this hour and Hank takes a few rolling stops a little too close to a non-stop. Connor doesn’t have the energy to correct him. He feels drained, like he’s been running too long without entering stasis. His limbs feel stiff and disobedient, like they’re made of lead instead of a lightweight yet durable plastimetal.

“I do not think,” Connor begins, forcing his voice into the thick silence, “I should return to work. There’s some sort of corruption in my programing and I fear I cannot operate optimally until it is resolved.” What he doesn’t say is that he can’t trust himself to be around such sensitive information and such dangerous situations. His body is a traitor, giving in to a will that’s not his own. Until he hears from Markus, there’s little to be done other than attempting to minimize the damage that he can do.

“Alright,” Hank agrees easily, moving one hand from the wheel to rest on Connor’s thigh. “I’ll call Jeffery in the morning and let him know we’ll be out for a couple of days.”

“It’s not necessary for you to remain home with me,” he adds listlessly. They are the only two members of the Android Crimes Division. Having both of them absent at the same time would be less than ideal. Furthermore, where once Hank served as a reassuring check on Connor’s behavior after returning home, he now serves as a potential casualty, one Connor can’t bear to lose. Connor needs to be isolated. In fact, perhaps he should ask Hank to lock him in the bathroom or somewhere else without a secondary means of escape, just in case. Maybe they should turn right around and drop Connor off at lock-up.

“Yeah, well, someone’s got to keep an eye on you. I swear, you’re worse than Sumo sometimes. I mean, geez, kid, do you have any idea how shitty it felt to realize you had disappeared into the middle of the night?” Hank’s voice picks up speed, each word filling with more and more emotion as he goes. “I didn’t know what happened. I thought you’d been taken and sold on the black market or…or I don’t know. But, fuck, I thought I’d lost you. Again.”

“I’m sorry, Hank,” he says flatly. He can feel Hank’s sorrowful blue eyes on the back of his neck, but he keeps his gaze averted out the window. Darkened shop windows and flickering street lights blur by. Yet another thing to feel guilty for: upsetting Hank. The list is growing and Connor has to manually override his immediate instinct to keep a tally of everyone he’s wronged. It doesn’t do him any good and, despite what his ordered program insists, it’d probably be good for a few minor infractions here or there to slip off his recall.

It’s evident that whoever took him briefly the other day, entered some sort of virus into his program before wiping his memory of the event. It’s possible they also installed some sort of automatic program execution that induces a memory wipe after every glitch. The android technician had said something about mildly corrupted programs that were inaccessible to her, not an uncommon discovery amidst the programming of a deviant – this new patch had to be hidden in that. The question that remained was what the end goal was. An attack on Jericho? An attack on Markus? Maybe it was just meant to cause general chaos, not unlike a terrorist attack, to heighten the humans’ fear of androids.

Regardless, Connor couldn’t be trusted until the program patch was removed or Connor was deactivated.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait friends, I tried to post this chapter a few days ago, but apparently I saved it as a draft instead?? Anyway, here you go!

“What the fuck?”

**April 17, 2039**

**0:02:34 AM**

**Location: Detroit Police Department – Evidence Locker**

He’s holding a scarf in one hand and an empty evidence bag in the other.

Why is he holding these things?

Connor looks up at the rest of the room, blinking rapidly. Why is he here?

“ _Connor?”_ Someone says in disbelief behind him.

No, not someone. Detective Gavin Reed to be exact.

Connor straightens as he turns to face the detective. He runs a scan, but turns up no active cases for which he might require a physical evidence examination. (And that’s without even touching on that fact that Connor is _handling evidence_ ). In fact, he has no cases whatsoever. He’s on his second day of self-imposed leave from work. He shouldn’t even be here. Why is he here? What is he doing?

“What are you doing?” Detective Reed says. The annoyed confusion on his face is remarkably similar to the twisted knot building in Connor’s chest. His chassis feels too tight, like he’s not in the right body.

**Stress Levels: ^76%**

**//WARNING: Decrease stress levels for continued functionality//**

“You don’t look so hot there, buddy,” Detective Reed appraises, moving forward slowly. Both his eyebrow and his lip quirk up on the left side, like he can’t quite believe what he’s seeing but also he doesn’t like it – whatever it is – at all. A confused sneer if such a thing is possible.

Truthfully, Connor is astounded by the remarkable number of ways in which humans can twist their face. Connor can mimic even the tiniest of microexpressions, but the bizarre way in which humans seem to combine them is unique and more than a little confounding.

“Detective,” Connor begins regretfully. He knows Reed is not someone he can trust and that fact compounded with Reed’s personal vendetta against androids creates a pretty high degree of certainty that it won’t be to Connor’s favor to tell Reed he is malfunctioning. But the fact of the matter is that Reed is the one who’s here and Connor absolutely cannot be trusted right now. For better or worse, he needs to report himself. “I’m afraid I am experiencing some sort of defect. I do not recall coming down here.”

To Connor’s surprise, the detective only cocks his head suspiciously and takes a few steps closer. He glances between Connor’s face and the scarf in his hands. The evidence bag is labeled with a case number and an evidence identification number. Above that is the name R. BRATCHETT.

The cold case.

The missing files.

“Are…are you tampering with evidence?” Detective Reed asks, eyes going wide in an uncharacteristically childish way. “What the…?”

“I have to call Hank.” It’s all he can think. He’s drowning in his own conclusions. He stole the files. He erased information. Destroyed Detective Hope’s career. He’s defective. He’s _a criminal._

**Calling: Lt. Anderson, Hank. (EC 1)**

**Dialing…**

Hank will know what to do. They haven’t heard anything from Markus yet, but somehow Hank’s presence will make things better. He’ll know that Connor didn’t mean to do any of this. He’ll explain.

“Are you crazy?” Gavin grabs his arm harshly, nearly knocking the scarf out of Connor’s grasp. Right, because other than who even knows what on Connor’s hand this piece of evidence from a _murder investigation_ should take a brief roll around on the floor too. “If you call Hank, he’ll be all kinds of fucked.”

**Dialing…**

“I’m afraid I don’t understand what you mean, Detective.”

_“Connor? Wha…? Where are you?”_

“If you call Hank down here, he’s either going to have to help you cover this up or turn you in. No one will believe he wasn’t involved in…whatever the hell you’re doing. You really want to drag him into that?”

_“Connor?”_

No. The last thing Connor wants is for Hank to get into trouble. His thirium pump is surging faster by the second and he feels nearly dizzy with the rush of thirium through his circuitry, but no, he’ll have to handle this on his own. Same goes for Markus. Connor can’t ask him to jeopardize his image and relationship with the DPD.

Connor’s all alone.

“I’m sorry, Hank, nothing’s wrong. Please return to bed.”

Reed’s face twists into some kind of Frankenstein smile as Connor speaks aloud.

_“What? Connor, where-”_

**Call Terminated.**

They stand in silence for a moment with only the faint hum of the ventilation system in the background. Connor has the childish urge to ask what to do next, but he knows such a question will weaken his already compromised integrity in the face of the other man. But even as Connor tries to summon up some semblance of objectives, he finds himself drawing a blank. He has committed a crime. Shouldn’t he report that to someone? But surely they’ll understand it wasn’t done of his own volition? He knows, both from Markus and from the endless stream of android based legislation and litigation, that the personal rights of androids, including both protection and culpability, are ill-defined at best. Androids aren’t easy to hack, but it can be done, so the question stands as whether that counts as “harming” someone.

A quick search of the internet confirms there is, as of yet, no such case to establish a precedent in the courts of America.

…But what if they shut him down? What if, even if they see it’s not his fault, they see he’s vulnerable? A liability?

**Incoming call: Lt. Anderson, Hank. (EC 1)**

**Call denied.**

Across from him, Gavin nods decisively as if he’s been in a long mental deliberation. “Here’s what we’re going to do: you’re going to put the scarf back. We’re going to go upstairs and I’m going to write up a report. We’re going to say that you were extremely disoriented and acting erratically. Clearly not your own doing. I’ll have to take your statement when this is all done. Then I’m going to take you into my custody and we’re going to visit an old friend of mine. We’re going to keep this nice and clean and keep you out of the spotlight. Okay?”

**OBJECTIVES:**

  1. **Put scarf back.**
  2. **Accompany Lt. Reed to file report.**
  3. **Visit Lt. Reed’s friend.**
  4. **Develop statement (Ongoing)**



“Agreed.”

**Incoming call: Lt. Anderson, Hank. (EC 1)**

**Call denied.**

Connor is dismayed to learn, while watching Reed write up an incident report, that several criminal records were altered, even erased, in addition to the disappearing evidence files. It occurred in the early hours of April 14th. Shortly before Connor showed up, disoriented, outside of New Jericho.

His protocol dictates an immediate arrest but he finds the thought of being locked in a cell while others contemplate his fate utterly terrifying.

He’s bad, though. He’s _corrupted._

But…

But he doesn’t want to be deactivated or reset. He doesn’t want to give up the life he’s so carefully built.

Connor offers precious little to the moment. Detective Reed fills out the paperwork mostly by himself. It’s not an incorrect report, per se, but Connor traces the tiny embellishments here and there. It’s an exaggeration of Connor’s disorientation. Reed writes about having to shake Connor out of a fugue state and how Connor immediately spoke of feeling “controlled”. Altogether, not too far a stray.

Hank calls twice more, but Connor dismisses them both with a blink. He sends Hank a text assuring him everything is being handled at the moment, but the reply suggests that such a response was no in any way reassuring.

For the sake of propriety, and to avoid having to lock Connor into a cell, Detective Reed takes Connor into his custody. Which more or less involves a handcuffing done for the security cameras and strict instructions that Connor is not to do anything or go anywhere unaccompanied or without express permission.

“If you do so, I’ll be forced to shoot you,” Gavin says with far less dismay than one might expect in such a situation. Sort of a ‘if the dog chews up those old shoes I hate I’ll just _have_ to get new ones’ kind of situation. Oh well. Anything more upset and Connor would have to be concerned that Reed has also been hijacked somehow.

The detective offers nothing on who this friend might be as they drive through the darkened city. Connor can’t help but feel as if he may be on his way to his demise. Some back alley android chop shop maybe. But, he reminds himself sternly, there’s nothing much better waiting behind him either.

Surrounded with the sound of a bitter spring rain pounding the outside of Reed’s car, Connor’s own thoughts drift to the man next to him and his inexplicable kindness. Inexplicable and out of character. Perhaps it was a concern that Reed himself might be accused of putting Connor into such a state if he didn’t help out. It’s not a secret that the gruff man suffers from insomnia. He’s not an out of place sight at the precinct in the wee hours of the morning.

The car rolls to an idle out front of a derelict mechanic’s garage. There’s only one bay door, but the sign for Manny’s Automotive is still hanging, albeit weakly, above it. The overgrowth along the edge of the building gives it a wild feeling, like it was so decrepit it had become part of the landscape itself.

“Well?” Detective Reed demands, bending in the driver side to see why Connor isn’t following suit. Connor has missed him getting out of the car entirely. The detective’s steps splash violently in the growing puddles of the early morning rain. This is more in line with what Connor typically expects of the other man.

“Hey!” Reed smashes his hand against the door next to the garage bay. “Hey, Ten! Open up!” Connor’s eyes track around quickly to assess if the raucous has roused any unwanted attention from the neighbors. The decaying mechanic’s shop is not out of place among the tattered edges of Detroit’s poorest. The light above the doorway flicks on, but the pounding doesn’t cease. “Detroit Police, open up!”

The door flies open, leaving Reed off-balanced with his arm in the air like a raver. “That’s the sort of thing that gets you shot around here, you dumb ass. It’s honestly a fucking miracle you’ve lived this long, Gavin.”

“Good to see you too, Ten.”

Ten is short and stocky, like rectangles of various proportions stacked atop one another. Between the uneven strands of black hair swishing about her chin, Connor can see a slew of ear piercings including something long that juts forward towards the side of her face. Without thought, he notes the tiny thing as a potential weapon. With humans, he learned you really can’t be too careful. Especially with the way she’s looking at Gavin now. Her arms cross her chest in a well-practiced motion and her shoulders roll back to lean against the doorframe. Connor suspects Reed could burst into flames right now and she wouldn’t so much as blink. A quick facial rec informs him only that her full name is Kirsten Abideen and she’s twenty-nine. No registered occupation or, interestingly, address. On paper, she’s completely untraceable. About as off the grid as one can get.

“Don’t give me look. You clearly weren’t sleeping,” Reed grouses, gesturing at her ripped jeans. There’s a logo for a band on her shirt that Connor doesn’t recognize, but based on the lightning-tipped letters and flames, it’s the sort of band that would get along well with Knights of the Black Death.

“Yeah, well, fuck you. I’m not here to answer your every beck and call.”

“You used to.”

The door shuts hard enough that Reed’s hair fluffs back from the wind. “Come on, Ten, don’t be like that. Ten!” He begins his ceaseless knocking again. Outside of the glow of the overhead light, Connor begins to shift uneasily. Whoever this woman is, she clearly isn’t pleased to see Reed. Didn’t the detective say this was a friend of his? Watching Reed whine at her door like a dog in heat hardly creates a friendly atmosphere in Connor’s mind. “I brought you a toy,” he cajoles. The light, Connor notices, has yet to go off. “A police android prototype. RK800. One of a kind.”

**Stress Levels: ^37%**

Connor takes a step back, debating if he ought to run. Is Reed attempting to sell him? Perhaps he’s been the mastermind all along, pulling Connor’s strings and shaping every moment until he could get the android to enter his car willingly.

**Calling: Lt. Anderson, Hank. (EC 1)…**

“Hey, stop that,” Reed says, swatting pointlessly at Connor’s yellow LED. “She’s not going to dissect you. She’s a…an android mechanic if you will. A tinkerer. There’s no one who knows more about android code than her. She’s your best shot, tin can.”

**Call aborted.**

Connor preps an SOS message with his current coordinates just in case. Apparently sensing his reluctance, Reed rolls his eyes. “I said I’d help you and I’m helping you, alright? Can you just…fucking chill for like one second? Jesus.”

Despite Reed’s obliviousness, Connor notices the second the door behind the other man opens and small black head peeks out. Her eyes are wide now, almost childlike in her curiosity, as she takes in Connor’s CyberLife jacket.

Reed notices Connor’s straying gaze. “What are you-? Oh, Ten.” The woman’s eyes narrow immediately as Reed turns to face her, not unlike the look Hank makes when unexpectedly confronted with the detective. Perhaps it’s a universal response to Detective Reed’s slimy grin of condescension.

“Let me make one thing very clear,” Ten says flatly as she pulls the door all the way open, “this is because I’m curious to see an RK800 in person. This is in no way a favor to you. I’m doing this for myself.” Without further invitation, she disappears into the darkness of the garage.

“Whatever you got to tell yourself, sweetheart.” The way Reed says it under his breath suggests Connor isn’t the only one wary of how Ten might react to such a comment.

Lights flicker on in various parts of the garage as Connor and Reed enter, illuminating a modest workspace. Spare parts, both android and old school metal, litter the area around the central workbench. Rolling tool carts are scattered about the space with drawers cracked open various degrees. Despite the abundance of misshapen metal and peeling paint, Connor can sense the tenderness with which the space is tended. The floor is clean and the light that brightens the space is soft and yellow. There’s a radio, one of the old breadbox sized ones with a large antenna that’s probably lived at least fifty years, settled on a well dusted shelf. Jars of spray paint and what looks like a tattoo gun take up the rest of the shelf. The far wall is covered in various styles of graffiti to create a cartoonish collage that practically glows with vibrancy. It’s clear this space is more than just a work area to Ten. A safe haven even. 

“Hop on up,” Ten says, patting the large worktable in the center of the room, “and tell the good doctor all about your woes.”

As Connor climbs up, she takes a seat in a tall rolling chair and rolls up next to him.

“He’s malfunctioning. Losing memories and shit.”

“Shut the fuck up, Gavin, I wasn’t talking to you. Go wait by the door or some shit.” Without missing a beat, she pushes back and pulls a cart with a laptop over. Rummaging through the drawers, which seem to hold, to Connor’s surprise, a good deal of technological parts and wiring, she summons a cable to connect her computer to the port in the back of an android. “May I?” she asks, holding up the end. Connor nods even as his stress levels tick up a few notches. This could be a virus or some sort of hack job. His central processors are strong, but a physical connection is always more difficult to sever mentally than a wireless one. In this state, he’s not sure he could force her out if he tried, leaving him completely at her mercy.

Her hands are cold at the back of his neck, but her fingers are gentle, reverent even, as they glide over the artificial skin. She connects the wire effortlessly before sliding out of Connor’s space easily. “That okay?” He nearly forgets to nod, so caught up is he in some phantom memory of rough fingers scratching at that port, pulling and forcing what’s not meant to be forced. It’s a far cry from her delicate work. The black cord hangs down his back, yet unattached to anything. “You got a name?”

“Connor.”

“Cool. I think it’s nice to know people’s names before I go messing around in their mind, you dig?”

Unable to determine if it’s a rhetorical question – why humans ask questions when they don’t want an answer is beyond boggling to Connor – he gives her a half-nod. He hopes it comes across as casual because inside he feels like his wiring is in knots. The strangeness of the situation is settling in. He doesn’t know what’s wrong with him and some knock-off unregistered technician is apparently going to fix this unknown problem. Nobody knows where he is or what he’s doing. He’s about to hand over the entirety of his code to a stranger based on the word of someone he distrusts on a good day. Practically the definition of unwise. Crazy even.

Ten wrangles some paper from under her computer and scavenges briefly for a pen. “So, memory loss? Can you tell me exactly what’s going on?”

It takes nearly fifteen minutes for Connor to get through the entirety of it, beginning with the park distress call. Ten nods as she jots down notes, asking the occasional clarifying question here or there. Connor struggles to articulate his experience with Markus in any meaningful way, but Ten is surprisingly apt with the terminology and response protocols so it takes less effort than expected to translate the cyber experience into something a human can understand.

“A patch?” she asks, eyes flicking up from her stalled pen.

“Yes, Markus described it as a patch hiding part of my memory recall from my access.”

“Interesting.” Connor thinks frightening is a more appropriate term, but he nods nonetheless. From the bottom drawer, Ten summons a slim black rectangle. An external drive. “Before we begin, you’re welcome to back up your data here. I’ll wipe it afterwards, so no worries about privacy.”

He’s surprised by her thoughtfulness, especially for such a DIY operation, and takes her up on her offer gratefully.

**Permit Access: Internet Protocol Address 172.16.254.1 – Designation “F_U_APPLE’s Laptop”?**

**Access permitted.**

Connor does his best to guide her through the same channels that Markus accessed, but it’s difficult to translate a cybernetic journey to folders of binary code. They filter through his memory first, with Connor bringing up the bookmarked times when his memory ceased and restarted. It’s only as she’s writing them down does he realize there aren’t three gaps, but four.

One recorded on 4.12.2039 beginning around 12:50 in the afternoon. His kidnapping. (The use of the term kidnapping is still under debate for it’s applicability to android’s, but the definition of unlawful confinement of a person against his or her will felt fitting enough.)

One on 4.15.2039 from around two to three in the morning. The day he’d found himself outside of Jericho.

And one from a few hours ago, when Connor found himself in the evidence room.

There is one other, however. Dated 4.14.2039 from 00:17 to 2:47. As far as Connor knows, he’d been in stasis the entirety of the gap. He had no reason to look back at the constant stream of data regarding his bio levels. He had no reason to examine the records of routine recalibration and maintenance to look for a gap.

“No self-initiated memory wipe would erase biocomponent functionality reports…” Ten observes with a frown. “It’s got to be some sort of external virus set to manually override and wipe your memory. It’s not delicate enough to discern between visual input and internal input so it just blanks it all out.” Frowning at her computer screen, Ten crosses her arms and leans back in her chair like a teacher examining a particularly troublesome child. “It doesn’t seem to be routine enough to be on a schedule. So there’s some sort of trigger for the wipe. But why?”

“The why ain’t that hard,” Reed says as he waltzes in, footsteps echoing loudly off the cement floor. Ten’s glare informs him that she’s holding her tongue only as long as he proves himself useful. Only once he’s satisfied that he has the full attention of his awed audience does Reed deign to bestow his wisdom upon them. “Well, looking at the dates…not to mention I found the fucker destroying evidence in the precinct.”

“What are you on about?”

Reed bends low over her shoulder to peer at the dates on the computer but Ten beats him back with an angry hand and a glare. Straightening himself, Reed continues, unperturbed as he ticks the dates off on his fingers. “April twelfth, Connor is taken by criminals for nefarious purposes. April fourteenth, cold case files go missing. April fifteenth, a handful of criminal records get wiped from the system. And this morning, April seventeenth, physical evidence _from the same cold case_ is destroyed by none other than your friendly neighborhood police robot.”

“What?” Ten demands, aghast, as she shoves herself away from both of them. “What the fuck, Gavin? Are you trying to get me caught up in some shady corruption shit?” She shoots Connor a glare like he inadvertently tainted her.

“I did not steal the files, nor did I erase any criminal histories,” Connor can’t help but point out. He’ll not let Reed besmear him in such a manner, even when Connor feels so lowly.

“And what about the scarf, huh? Who was all up in there touching it with sticky fingers?”

“I…” He can’t get out the rest of the sentence. It had to be true. Like all detectives and lieutenants, Hank has a physical key to the building. If Connor had swiped it…he could have easily accessed the building from the back and avoided the security cameras…

**Stress Levels: ^65%**

“Hey, but we know you didn’t mean to,” Reed says, something almost soft in his voice as Connor struggles. Thirium rushes through his body in an erratic race while his ventilation nearly doubles to prevent overheating.

“No, yeah, Gavin’s right – don’t look into that, fuckface – there’s clear evidence of program tampering here. Not to mention the memory wipe. It’s all some sort of virus-y shit.” She settles herself back in her chair and rolls up to Connor without a moment of hesitation. Connor can’t take his gaze off of his own lap. Shame is pooling thick and hot in the back of his throat and he feels like he’ll suffocate on the weight of his failures. He hasn’t just ruined a piece of evidence, he’s destroyed an entire case.

A light touch on the back of his hand startles him into looking up. Despite his flinch, Ten doesn’t pull back, choosing instead to let her chilled fingers rest on the back of his hand. “We’ll sort this out, yeah?”

Connor can only nod. Maybe once all this is over and his miscarriage of justice has been righted as much as possible and his inadequacy has been laid bare for all to see – maybe Hank will let him stay on as a roommate. Connor knows it’ll be a blow to the older lieutenant to discover the enormity of Connor’s failures, but maybe he’ll take pity on a down and out friend. Connor could find work elsewhere. Even disgraced cops can mop floors and Connor’s not above doing exactly that until he can prove his worth once more.

“Alright,” Reed says, suddenly standing fully upright with a serious set to his features. “From now on, we’ve got to handle this like a real police matter. This shit’s serious. I’m going to record this on my phone and Ten, you’re going to take screenshots of any suspicious stuff you find.” Reed paused, cocking his head and a small smirk slipped onto his lips. “Kinda brings a new definition to police corruption, don’t it?”

They proceed that way, with Reed carefully documenting and Ten narrating her actions aloud. The printer rears to life as screenshot after screenshot of data corruption and inconsistencies pop up. Ten agrees to give an official statement at the precinct afterwards, as does Connor. They’ll approach Captain Fowler in the morning with nothing less than an airtight case to prove Connor’s lack of culpability.

It’s not the legal ramifications that Connor’s concerned about, though. He should have known something was wrong immediately. He should have removed himself from work at the first hint of trouble. Even if he could be excused of any wrongdoing in regards to the cold case mishandling – which Connor himself will _not_ be excusing – it still exposes just how vulnerable he is. A weakness. A liability in a way no human ever could be. Guilty or not, his position, his access to sensitive information – it all needs to be reassessed. It feels like a step back for android rights, to essentially assign him a handler who curates exactly what he does and does not have permission to see, not to mention a major hindrance to his ability to effectively solve cases, but if that’s what it takes for Connor to remain on the force, he’ll accept it, along with any other clauses that might make Fowler sleep a bit better at night. 

In reality, he’d do just about anything because, aside from the little life he’s cobbled together with Hank and Sumo, his job is all he has. Without it, he has no identity.

“So, Police Boys,” Ten begins, a satisfied smirk sitting heavily on her lips, “does the phrase ‘Red Storm’ mean anything to you?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So how do we feel about Ten? I hope she's not too Mary-Sue-ish, I just needed another person to make this happen and I sort of loved the idea of Gavin getting his ass lowkey handed to him by her.


	8. Chapter 8

“My best guess is some sort of rootkit. From what I can tell, a new protocol was integrated into Connor’s program, this ‘Red Storm’. It’s designed to look like debunked programming from pre-deviancy and it only allows authorization by those who installed it, meaning Connor himself doesn’t have the authorization to change it. Anything less than an intentional search would bypass it without thought.”

Ten’s head follows Reed’s pacing figure along the edge of the workshop. Connor can’t seem to summon any words for either of them. Even running an automatic social program seems like too much effort for the moment. He wants to rip his plastimetal fingers into the back of his skull and keep digging until he’s pulled this monster out, even if it means destroying himself in the process.

Someone out there, some criminal who could think of Connor only as a means to an end, had tampered with him. Had _violated_ him. Forced him to betray every value he held sacrosanct. He went against the core intentions upon which his very being was constructed. All because someone felt a little hot under the collar about a cold case.

“It has to be someone connected to the original case,” Ten concludes, watching the two unhelpful detectives with a narrow stare. “The program initiates itself when Connor enters stasis and allows remote control over basic motor functions. Whether you mean to or not, Connor, your mind tags everything you see and connects these tags to develop larger pictures. It’s vital to detective work. Everything that you’ve tagged as being related to this case, this R. Bratchett, can be accessed by running your data files for the right keywords. Then it’s only a matter of using you as a puppet to get into the police system and delete the right bits of information. It’s why you felt so tired,” she continues, face softening a little as she looks at Connor’s dejected frame. “You thought you were in stasis but your body was being forced to continue operating nearly 24/7. The final step of the process was a hard wipe of all functions since initiating the Red Storm program, hence the memory gaps.”

“I’m hearing a lot of problems and not a lot of solutions,” Detective Reed groans, one hand over his eyes with his elbow high in the air.

“Well, I don’t know about you but some of us have been working our asses off for hours. I mean it’s – jeez, what time is it?”

“It’s five forty-seven in the morning,” Connor reports dutifully.

“Jesus fuck, it’s five forty-seven in the morning, Gavin. I need at least a little more caffeine in me before I can get you anywhere near solutions. Rootkits are complicated, it’s probably – I’m sorry, Connor, but it’s probably going to require a full shut down on your part. A hard reset is best. Once you’re offline, I can try to untangle things. We’ll back up your memories again, in case anything goes wrong. I might have to delete some things, but it should be mostly old programming from pre-deviancy. Then we’ll give you back your memories and restart you with the reset programming.”

Connor sees the way she plasters on the edges of her smile. It’s a human thing to do, to try and be delicate for the sake of making someone feel better. To Connor it just feels like deception, like underpinning his chances and letting his hopes get away from him.

“There is a chance I will awaken as a non-deviant,” he states flatly. Reed lets out a curse from somewhere behind him, but Ten only lets her smile slip into something small and sad.

“Remembering becoming deviant and becoming deviant aren’t the same thing. Most likely, you’ll awaken as a non-deviant, but deviate quickly. But there’s also slim chances you’ll wake up deviant or that you’ll take longer, perhaps even months to re-deviate. But your friends, I saw memories of them, of that deviant leader with the cool jacket, I saw them. Nothing helps an android deviate like other deviants. They’ll get you back on track, don’t worry.” The way her hand pats against his cheek is slightly floppy and uncoordinated. If Ten hadn’t been asleep when they’d arrived, which Connor is quite certain of, then it could have been a good while since she’d last slept. And all for a stranger.

Who is he to deserve such kindness?

“Thank you, Ten.” She blinks in surprise before cracking a smile.

“Aw, don’t thank me yet, Chappie. Let’s get you all fixed up first. Gavin, they got good coffee down at your station?”

“Eh, good enough,” he says as he scratches the back of his neck.

“Then let’s get down there so I can give my statement. Then we’ll get to work on you.” She jabs a friendly finger at Connor.

“Please take your time, miss. If you need to sleep…”

“Connor,” her hand settles again on his shoulder, “You realize you can’t go into stasis until we fix this, right? Rootkits have a way of derailing software that would otherwise detect or deter them, so every minute it’s active is a minute against us.”

He nods, even though he hadn’t realized this. It’s (apparently) been nearly a week since he’s been able to complete a full stasis reset cycle. It shows. Already he feels the decreased functioning of his processors. His limbs are still at optimal levels, but as more and more thirium is diverted to maintaining executive functioning and keeping his core temperature from overheating, they too will grow delayed and resistant. A fresh bit of thirium, especially chilled, might keep him going for another twelve hours or so, but after that…slowed reflexes and decreases in coordination, followed by increases of temperature and a loss of his artificial skin entirely. Not to mention his self-healing programs will be essentially nil.

But, he won’t jeopardize others because of his own weaknesses.

The car ride to the station is silent. Connor offers Ten the passenger seat, but she scoffs in Reed’s direction before curling into the backseat. In the neon glow of the traffic lights, Connor can see deep bags under Detective Reed’s eyes. His body is stiff and hunched behind the wheel. He may be a noted insomniac, but Reed is not above the physical toll of an all-nighter.

Guilt, Connor has learned, is one of the more intolerable emotions that humans grapple with. It feels like a weight on his chest with no discernable source. He would give his life for just about anyone without a second thought, but he never asked for anyone to suffer on his behalf. Never, yet they do and he can’t stop them. He just has to sit there, feeling responsible for that which he’d rather not happen at all. It’d probably piss Markus off (and _definitely_ piss North off), but Connor can’t help but think, what is his life as a machine worth in comparison to these flesh and blood people around him? Why is he worth their suffering?

“Thank you, Detective,” he says, seemingly apropos of nothing. They’re thinking only of a caffeine fix. It’s truly marvelous how humans can have such a narrow focus when the world is buzzing around them. “I appreciate you going so far out of your way for me.”

Reed only shrugs uncomfortably while Ten, for some reason, sits up straighter in the back before leaning forward to rest her head on the back of Connor’s seat.

“Yeah, Gavin, it is rather out of character for you to help a friend. Especially an android friend.” Her voice is saccharine as it billows out in the air. It feels deceptively sweet, like a well coated poison.

“We’re not friends,” he mumbles, shoulders drawing in tighter as if to ward off unwanted questions.

“Exactly, which leads me to wonder why Gavin Reed would be doing something for someone else at all. Unless of course, you did this for yourself?”

Connor can only frown at her, unsure of what she thinks she’s deduced. Her eyes have no time for Connor, though, locked as they are on Reed. There’s a tiny pinch in the side of his cheek where the inside is most likely being bitten. Nerves?

Ten continues, hawk-like in her focus, “Like maybe you did it to ease your own guilt?”

Guilt? If Gavin Reed has ever felt an ounce of guilt at his treatment of Connor, he’s certainly never let on. Now, when Connor is all but off the rails and Reed is more vindicated in his mistreatment than ever, is an odd time to begin feeling guilty.

“You wanna debate the existence of altruism? Fine, but I’m fucking fixing the problem, aren’t I? So back off, _Kirsten_.” He lets her name sail like a bomb, where its devastation is wrought across her face.

“Yeah, a problem you created, you weak piss.” She retreats from her close proximity before he can respond and tucks herself into the back seat as close to the door as possible. Connor watches her briefly in the rearview mirror, where her face is pale and drawn in the dingy streetlamp light, before she slips into the shadows and out of sight.

“Look, Connor,” Reed hisses, “I fucked up real bad. I sold you out and I’m real sorry, man. Truly I am. But I’m doing my best to fix this shit, alright? I’m fucking trying here. So can we keep this between us? Last thing I need is that alcoholic coot on my ass about this. He’s always on me about how I treat you.”

“Perhaps you ought to treat your coworkers better,” Connor offers coolly. Frankly, it feels like a plea deal, something fostered more for the sake of self-preservation than an outstanding morality. It’s devoid of any lessons learned or future mistakes averted. Some people fall into the same patterns over and over again, unable to see the applicability of the past outcomes. And maybe they’re sorry and maybe they’re just sorry they got caught or that shit snowballed out of control, but it certainly won’t be any profound character alterations.

However, for one reason or another, Detective Reed is sorry. He’s practically squirming with unease at his own guilt. The tight pinch of his lip and the hunched shoulders are more than enough to tell Connor that Reed feels lower than low.

For once, Reed feels _lesser_ than Connor. And that’s enough for now.

“Alright, Detective. If you continue to help me, then I will keep your decisions to myself.”

“Didn’t take you for the blackmail type, tin can.”

“I’m merely agreeing to the terms of your deal,” Connor counters.

They don’t have any longer to chat, however, because as they pull up to the precinct, they find a dripping wet and decidedly grumpy Hank Anderson seated on the front steps.

“Fuck, this should be good,” Reed grouses as he turns the car off. As the three of them spill into the early morning air, Hank gets roughly to his feet and stomps over.

“Someone mind telling me what the fuck is going on?” Hank demands. His eyes go immediately to Connor for a quick once over. “Jesus, Connor, where the hell you been?”

“I apologize for any undue worry or stress I may have caused, Lieutenant. It’s best if we continue to speak inside, your body temperatures are slightly depressed from the rain.”

But Hank takes a step in the opposite direction, crowding in Reed’s space and jabbing a finger at the younger man. “I swear to God, Reed if you so much as laid a finger on him-”

“I’m unhurt, Lieutenant,” Connor reminds.

“C’mon, old man! We’re wet and tired. You can threaten to disembowel me inside.”

“Don’t think I won’t. Come on, Connor.” Hank latches on to Connor’s shoulder as he storms by, all but dragging the android into the station and out of the rain. Behind them, Ten pointedly ignores the door Reed holds for her and slips through the adjacent set of doors.

Bringing Hank up to speed is no small task, one Connor takes upon himself while Reed takes Ten’s statement in a private interrogation room. For now, he leaves out Reed’s role in his initial kidnapping, mostly because he does not want to see Hank sent to jail for assault.

“So someone fuckin’…fuckin’ hacked you? Like some piece of shit computer?”

“Although I am far more advanced than any standard computer, all technological devices are vulnerable to unwanted alterations in some way or another,” Connor reminds gently. Presently, he’s more concerned with keeping Hank’s blood pressure low and stable than with debating his own culpability in the situation.

Hank runs an aggressive hand through his hair, leaving it far more disarrayed than before. As Hank speaks, his hand jerks across the table in little jabs and sweeping gestures, a sure sign he’s more upset than he’s trying to let on. “You’re not a fucking iPod, Connor, you’re a – _a person!_ We’re not talking about stealing someone’s social security number-”

“Identity theft is a serious matter, Hank.”

“-this is like brainwashing or some shit. Torture, even. I mean, how could anyone look at you and think that you’re just a piece of technology to be used for their own gain? It’s…it’s sick is what it is. I’m telling ya, there’s no ends to humanity’s depravity.”

Connor only offers a shrug, unsettled by Hank’s dismay. He isn’t sure how to reconcile his personhood with the motivations of the perpetrators. It’s part of being human, he understands, to have rights and to expect them to be respected. Isn’t that everything Markus is fighting for? And Connor feels it, truly he does. That sense of violation. So some small part of him recognizes himself as having the right to privacy and the right to function as he desires.

But what Connor really wants is to slip back to normalcy as seamlessly as possible. He wants to return to his job and the simple life he’s carefully curated with Hank and Sumo. It doesn’t seem like too much to ask, really. He doesn’t want vengeance or any semblance of personal retribution. He wants the culprits caught, of course, but no more so than any run of the mill criminal. He wants them caught because they broke the law and every line of his code is written with the strictest code of justice.

For himself, though, all he wants is to be returned to his proper state so he can get on with it. It doesn’t need to be a moral crusade or social justice examination. He’s just an android who wants to continue doing what he was built to do.

“Hey, did you hear me?”

Connor blinks out of his thoughts to find Hank hovering half way between the door and the table in the break room. Detective Reed is standing in the doorway with his laptop and several files balanced carelessly in one arm.

“I’m sorry, Lieutenant, I was preoccupied with my thoughts. What is it you were saying?”

The hard edges of Hank’s worn face soften slightly and his head tips just slightly to the left. As if sensing an incoming moment of sentimentality, Reed shifts uncomfortably, eyes wandering everywhere but at them.

“You okay, kid?”

“I am…as well as can be expected,” Connor acquiesces. He rounds the table and stops next to Hank.

“We’re going to talk to Fowler,” Reed says, seemingly eager to divert any spontaneous hugging or weeping that may erupt before him. “You need to come.”

Hank keeps his warm palm low on Connor’s back as they walk to the Captain’s office.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let's be honest - I don't love this, but frankly I'm coming to hate this story. I'm finishing it because you lovely readers deserve that. Thank you for your continued support - it's truly the only thing keeping me going with this. The next chapter will be up soon.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for all of your support through this roller coaster ride - your comments & kudos kept me going!
> 
> Enjoy :D

Ten is sleeping on one of the breakroom couches when Connor wanders in. Even as he takes pains to soften his footfalls, her eyes blink open and Connor sees, for the briefest of moments, a bewildered panic as she tries to orient herself. She looks vulnerable, body curled in the small space, doe-like eyes blinking at the world like she’s opening them for the first time.

“Good afternoon.” He feels awkward standing over her, like some sort of vulture waiting for her to drop dead any second. Scuffling back a few steps, he drags his gaze elsewhere to give her a modicum of privacy.

“Hey, you,” she says fondly. Her spine pops repeatedly as she stretches this way and that. It doesn’t sound like any noise the human body should make, but she grins in satisfaction. “Are you ready?”

The meeting with Captain Fowler went well, all things considered. Connor was a little startled how easy it was to sway the Captain to the train of thought that Connor was brainwashed (for lack of a better word) and that none of his actions were of his own doing.

“ ‘Course not,” the Captain had replied with a shrug, impatient for the crux of the situation. Detective Reed had glanced up from his spread of folders, ready and willing to go into each iota of evidence they’d dug up in Connor’s noggin. But the Captain wasn’t interested in their evidence of Connor’s innocence. He dismissed that concern with a wave of his hand. But Connor himself had nearly fallen over with relief at the Captain’s easy acceptance. The drop of Hank’s tensed shoulders reflected similar sentiments, even though the other man had insisted Connor had nothing to worry about.

Fowler was concerned with three things, which Connor now established as his new objectives because lists were easy and stabilizing in this ocean of unease.

**Objectives:**

  1. **Work with Ten to restore Connor to previous condition**
  2. **Apprehend the guilty parties**
  3. **Assist Dt. Hope in restoring the cold case**



Objective one came with two clauses: that a DPD-consultant android technician would be present during Ten’s restoration, and that Connor would undergo a full battery of tests conducted by two independent android consultants before returning to work.

Just like that.

Do some tests and return to work, no suspensions, no handlers. No need for a new job or a new housemate.

The giddiness felt almost like an air-leak in his chassis, bubbling up and out with energetic fervor. He wasn’t alone anymore. He wasn’t drowning in uncertain possibilities for the future. They had a path set, all that was left was to walk it.

A quick update to Markus returns an equally relieved reply. Not thirty minutes later, a mulish Captain Fowler informs him that Markus had, via phone, insisted on being present, both because he’d initially helped Connor with some of the problems and because an android-rights representative ought to be present for such invasive tampering.

(Connor is secretly pleased to have his friend by his side.)

At the request of both Ten and Connor, they conduct the restoration at Ten’s garage. With the presence of Connor, Ten, Hank, Markus, a DPD officer charged with ensuring impartial proceedings, and the DPD-consultant android technician, it’s a tight fit. Detective Reed is also, for some reason, in attendance, though last Connor knew he was going out to smoke and stalk mulishly around in that way of his. Regardless, Connor finds it surprisingly relieving to find so many people in his corner, routing for him.

Both Markus and Ten hold his hands as he backs up his memories. Ten reminds him of the chances of waking up non-deviant, to which Markus ensures him he’ll help Connor re-deviate as soon as possible.

He feels like he’s going forward with the odds as in his favor as they can be. Not to mention his little flock of friends, ready to fight for him no matter the cost. It’s a good feeling, especially when traipsing into dark, unsure if he’ll come out the same or not on the other side. There are people here who not only want the best for him, but are willing to voice Connor’s wishes when he’s unable to. People who won’t discard him or give up on him.

It’s a little overwhelming.

“You’ll be fine, kid,” Hank says from a few feet away, trying to pull something like a smile onto his cantankerous features.

“We’ll make sure of it,” Markus agrees, sending a message of reassurance through their connected hands. It’s not words or even bits of code, just the sensation of peace like the first sip of coco on a bitter morning.

“You ready?” Ten asks, squeezing his hand in her delicate one.

At his nod, he feels his body come alive with the connection to her laptop. It’s like suddenly finding oneself in front of a door, finding a connection that wasn’t there before, unsure of what’s ahead.

**Permit Access: Internet Protocol Address 172.16.254.1 – Designation “F_U_APPLE’s Laptop”?**

**Access permitted.**

**Manual Override of all systems – authorized by 172.16.254.1.**

**Time until shutdown: -00:00:13**

Connor feels the immediate twitch, that sudden panic of a forced shutdown. His instincts insist he try to reject the shutdown and deny her access. Boot Ten out and kill the connection. It’s self-preservation at its finest, a computer crying out as the owner presses the power off button before the programs are closed down.

He squashes the instinct and watches the countdown tick down until.

**-00:00:03**

**-00:00:02**

**-00:00:01**

**SHUTDDDOOoooo…**

**Initiating Start-up…**

**Central Processors: Online**

**Sensory Perception: Online**

**Motor Functioning: Online**

**Running self-assessment…**

**Biocomponent functionality: 100%**

**Sensory Processors: 100%**

**Thirium Volume: 67%**

**Stress Levels: 20%**

**April 17 th, 2039 - 18:23:16**

**Location: 42.33168° N, -83.048° E – “Manny’s Automotive” (Foreclosed)**

**Objectives: ?**

**Objective: Establish objective.**

“Connor?”

The interior of Manny’s Automotive is cluttered, both with stray parts and people, when he opens his eyes. He pulls up all his memories tagged with Manny’s Automotive and is surprised to find several. Even as he stares around cataloging his surroundings – three exits, five humans, one android other than himself, and fifty-six potential weapons – his data tells him he already knows all this.

“Connor?”

**Identification:** **RK200 #684 842 971 – “Markus”**

**//WARNING: Deviant Status//**

“Markus,” he begins, startled when the other android smiles, “Serious malfunctions have been detected in your software, including Class 4 errors. You’ve been deemed defective and will be sent back to CyberLife for deactivation.”

Markus’s face falls, but it’s not anger or panic that overtakes his features. It’s something sadder, almost sympathetic. Connor begins a search for pertinent information or memories relating to Markus. Even as it takes fractions of a second to analyze and process thousands of hours of memories, he’s still nearly overwhelmed with the breadth of the search return.

_Friends with a deviant?_

**Calling: CyberLife Industries…**

**Call cannot be completed. Line no longer in use.**

His stress ticks up a few notches. What…?

“Connor, may I?” This deviant/rebel leader/ ~~friend~~ asks, holding out his arm but not yet touching Connor’s. “I promise this will make more sense after.” Several people in the room nod encouragingly at him, which only serves to make Connor wonder if he hasn’t fallen into the clutches of some sort of mismatched cult of derelict automotive garage enthusiasts.

He nods. He’s stronger than an RK200, even as two prototypes, he’s sure he can kick the other android out if necessary.

**Permit Access: RK200 #684 842 971?**

**Access permitted.**

Markus begins to pull memories up in a nanosecond slideshow. But they’re not just memories. They’re tinged and warped, shaded with emotions Connor doesn’t know how to process. It starts as external little notes, something akin to a Post-It saying this makes you happy, but as more and more is shoved at him, it seeps into his mainframe like spilled coffee, soaking further and further as he chases after to pull it out. As the images speed by the feelings bleed and bleed until…

Markus is not just an android. Markus is loyalty and respect. Friendship and concern. Connor will die to protect this android. He will love him forever and never hurt him.

The curious-looking, black-haired girl is Kirsten Abideen. She’s a new addition to the group, but she’s trust and salvation. She’s hope. She’s the glued together pieces of something once broken.

The short, scowling man in the brown leather jacket is Detective Gavin Reed. He’s anger and bitterness in a small, hissing package, but he forces Connor to stand up for himself, to give as good as he gets. He drives Connor to be better, to prove himself, to take pride. (So he can rub it in the other detective’s face).

There’s two DPD employees, a observing patrolman and an android technician. Their names aren’t anything particularly familiar, but their presence fills him with satisfaction. He works for DPD. It’s his pride and joy. He helps people. He saves people. This is the institution that he loves, that drags him through the mud only to shove him, blinking, into the sunlight. The pursuit of justice, the pursuit of peace. It’s his focus in live, his purpose.

And that gruff man staring over Markus’s shoulder with a raised eyebrow and a downturned lip is…

He’s Hank.

He’s safety and protection. Concern and love. He’s a provider, a protector, a father.

It’s not like pulling down the red wall. It’s like opening a door he forgot existed.

And on the other side is Hank. Always.

 “Hank,” he blurts, unintentionally pulling away from Markus and ripping their connection. The parade of memories stops, but it doesn’t matter. His nonsensical objectives tumble to the ground and the ongoing search for a CyberLife connection drops. He surges forward and nearly crashes into the older man.

“Connor?”

“I’m here,” he replies, breathing in the faded scent of aftershave, dog hair, and maybe a bit of beer. Hank’s arm return Connor’s hug with equal strength, crushing him impossibly close.

“Fuck, I missed you, kid.” His voice wobbles.

Ten’s boxy grin greets him when he pulls back to settle himself back on the table. She pulls her laptop close and takes him through the procedure in painstaking detail. Her fingers drag along the screenshots of code that make up Connor as she points out alterations she made in his code. It’s almost entirely alterations to defunct programming, but she tells him anyway, transparent in her actions. It gives him a piece of mind to know everything, even faults that will never be exposed as incompatible. It’s a part of him nonetheless and he knows it’s there.

The Red Storm program was elegant, Ten tells him, and she had to all but hack it apart to separate the strings of good code from bad. It looks so stupidly harmless, just a series of objectives and protocols. But within the streams of ones and zeros was Connor’s near destruction. A malignant betrayal.

The consulting android technician checks him over as well, connecting a small device to the port at the back of his neck before running him through various tests to monitor his physical and cybernetic reactions.

It’s tedious, but the confounded scowl on Hank’s face as he watches the device flash and beep as it interfaces with Connor makes it worth it. The technician informs him that he’ll have to enter stasis tonight under her supervision, but the easy sway of her shoulders reassures him it’s a technicality more than anything.

“As far as I can tell, you’re good to go. I’ll submit my report to Captain Fowler in the morning, declaring you fit for duty.”

The wave of relief seeps through the room quickly as shoulders collectively drop and sighs cram the small area.

“Damn that’s good to hear.” Hank graces him with a lopsided grin while Markus pats him on the shoulder. He can’t believe his luck, to have stumbled into a life filled with people who are willing to see him through the dark when there’s no light to be seen. People who will fight for him, people who trust him even when the universe says not to.

Connor’s first thought is that he’d die for anyone in this room. His gratitude is overwhelming as it balloons in his head. But, staring at the carefree smiles and easy-going chatter around him, Connor realizes that’s not the best gift he could bestow upon any of them. Whether his life is worth that of a humans or not, the continuation of his life, for some reason, has an indisputably positive affect on those he cares about. So he’ll keep going for them, until he can keep going for himself.

“You should go home and rest, Hank,” Connor encourages as he and the technician prepare to leave for the station where he can be monitored in stasis.

“Nah, kid, don’t worry about it. I got all this shit to deal with,” Hank chuffs, gesturing at the seemingly expanding pile of papers generated from their evidence collection. Reports need to be written and statements taken so that the I’s can be doted and the t’s can be crossed. Everything tucked away neatly with a big, official check mark on it.

“No sweat, old man, I’ll get it done,” Detective Reed offers, tone forcefully casual as he begins gathering the mess into some semblance of a pile.

“What?” Hank asks, one eyebrow nearly arching off his face in disbelief. “Why…?”

But Reed meets Connor’s gaze instead of Hank’s. “It’s the least I can do,” Reed says softly, a supplication of the soul. 

And Connor nods, bestowing his forgiveness silently. They’ll but heads again, no doubt. But it’s much easier to hold budding truces in one’s heart than bitter shards of grievances past.  

Besides, all Connor has been asking for has been a return to normalcy and there’s simply nothing more normal than a deeply sarcastic and generally misanthropic Detective Gavin Reed. Connor doesn’t have time to walk Reed through moral development, nor does he want to.

As he settles into the car for the ride back to the station, Connor has no thoughts to spare for Reed. He has only thoughts of a good night’s rest and the wonderfully simple and simply wonderful life waiting for him in the morning.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay friends, I realize I didn't actually wrap up the main who-dun-it portion of our mystery, but every time I tried to wrangle it in, it just felt out of place. That's not what the story was about anyway. I'm sorry if it felt stilted or uncompleted, but I'm content with the ending. 
> 
> As I've mentioned previously, this fic and I have not had a happy relationship, but more DBH fics aren't an impossibility. *shrugs* I also write for Hawaii 5-0, BTS, and there's some older stuff for Supernatural, Thor, and Criminal Minds - if any of that is your jam, check out my page :D
> 
> Thanks for reading!

**Author's Note:**

> Please kudo & comment! Do you want to read more? This is my first DBH fic so who even knows if it's anything worthwhile! Next chapter probably in a week if people are interested in reading more.
> 
> Thanks for reading :D


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